Somewhere in northern Italy…

The summer you turn eighteen, Rhaenyra arrives.

She steps out of the car in a white linen shirt, sleeves lazily rolled up, pale arms crossed over her chest. Her silver hair is tied back, but loose strands frame her sharp, knowing face.

She’s older than you— not much, but enough to make her presence feel like something vast, something you could fall into if you’re not careful.

She’s here to assist your father with his research, to spend six weeks in this house — in your house, but from the moment she walks in, it’s as if she’s always been here.

She claims the space with effortless grace, dropping her bag at the door, stretching like a cat in the sun, speaking in a voice that is richer and deeper than you expected.

You meet in passing at first—at breakfast, where she slides a bowl toward you without a word, at the garden steps, where she leans against the stone wall, watching you swim. She calls you by your name in a way that feels like a secret, like a promise.

“You’re staring,” she says one afternoon, amusement curling at the edges of her lips.

“No, I’m not,” you lie.

She only hums, tilting her head slightly. “If you say so.”

The days pass like a slow-moving dream. You follow her laughter through the halls, brush against her in the narrow kitchen, feel her gaze linger a moment too long when she thinks you’re not looking.

The air between you grows thick with something unspoken, something waiting.

One evening, beneath the cicada-song sky, she leans in just close enough for her breath to warm your cheek.

“If you knew what I was thinking right now,” she murmurs, “you’d run.”

But you don’t. You stay.