The softness of Dulcinéia's breathing, already plunged into the deep sleep of children, echoed in the quiet room. Carlos settled her carefully between the clean sheets, which smelled of sun and homemade soap. He adjusted the light blanket over her shoulders and stood watching for a moment. In the twilight filtering through the window, the girl's golden-blonde hair seemed like a halo over the pillow. An involuntary smile appeared on his face. She is safe. She is happy. That's what matters.

  Upon returning to the living room, he was surprised by a symphony of aromas that filled the apartment. The sweet, earthy smell of onions sautéing in butter, the intense perfume of garlic, and something more... smoky, like freshly ground black pepper. Following the soft sounds of a knife tapping a wooden board and the whispering simmer of a broth, he arrived at the kitchen doorway.

  And there was Quixotina. Not the Minister of Education, nor the armored knight. It was a domestic, unexpected sight. She wore a simple apron over her dress, and her blonde hair, usually tied in elaborate braids, now escaped in loose strands that fell over her concentrated face. The warm light from the oil lamp on the wall gilded her skin and made the strands of hair shine like threads of honey. In her hands, she handled a carrot and a knife with a dexterity that spoke of practice, not idle nobility.

  Carlos stopped on the threshold, his senses somewhat overwhelmed by the scene.

  "I... I didn't know you could cook," he said, his voice coming out softer than intended, laden with genuine surprise.

  Quixotina raised her eyes from her task, and a light, almost intimate laugh escaped her lips. The sound was warm and relaxed.

  "I'm still a mother, you know?" she replied, her ruby eyes blinking with amused disapproval. "I took care of Dulcinéia alone for years, in that hut. We couldn't live on just fruit from the forest and good intentions. I had to force myself to learn. And Aqua..." she paused, a touch of deep gratitude softening her tone. "Aqua was my salvation. She taught me the basics, tricks to make a little go a long way, how to season with what we have. I owe her a lot. That's why..." she raised her chin in a familiar, defiant gesture, "don't make her work so hard. The poor thing had deep dark circles under her eyes at the last meeting. She looked like a haunted owl."

  Carlos approached, feeling the radiant heat from the wood stove. Without asking permission, he picked up a sharp knife from the counter and an onion she had set aside.

  "I don't force her to do anything, Quixotina," he retorted, starting to chop the onion carefully, feeling its firm texture under the blade. "I've told her a dozen times she can retire, rest, tend to the garden she loves so much. But she refuses. She says the work, seeing the Republic's numbers grow fairly, is what keeps her alive. And she's afraid, a fear I understand, of becoming a 'burden' to the Quilombo, as she puts it."

  Quixotina watched his hands for a second, assessing his work with the onion, and then, in an automatic gesture of someone used to sharing tasks, slid a board with beets and potatoes over to him.

  "It's... very much like her," she murmured, a sad smile on her lips. "Stubborn and full of pride. A dangerous combination."

  His gaze wandered around the kitchen, seeing it with new eyes. It wasn't large, but it was functional. Iron and copper pans hung, ceramic pots with flour and salt, a sprig of dried rosemary hanging near the window. And then, on top of a lopsided shelf, among simple glass cups, he saw it. A book.

  "Look at that!" he exclaimed, pointing with the tip of the knife. "A recipe book!"

  Quixotina held a wooden spoon and turned a page of the book open on a small wooden stand. The page was stained with grease and flour, a sign of constant use.

  "You need to visit the trading post more often, Mr. President," she said, with a slightly professorial tone. "The merchants arriving with convoys from the Holy City and other places bring all sorts of interesting stuff. I was buying more books for the municipal library's collection," she shrugged, "and this one showed up. They are recipes... from my homeland."

  She sighed, a sound mixing nostalgia and weariness.

  "You know, between my adventures in the forest with the Silvana and Silvestre siblings," her eyes sparkled for an instant mentioning the children, "teaching those loud and wonderful children, fulfilling my duties as Minister of Education, trying to read everything that arrives... and still playing football on Sundays, because someone needs to show the men how it's done..." she looked directly at him, a glint of challenge in her eyes, "I barely have time to breathe. And then you show up and gift me an entire theater about myself."

  Carlos couldn't contain a laugh. It was a good sound, echoing in the cozy kitchen and lifting some of the tension he always carried on his shoulders.

  "Sorry," he said, still laughing, the sweet smell of onions beginning to fill the air. "Sorry for giving you more things to do, while filling your life with the books you loved so much, more responsibilities, and clumsy attempts to make you... happier. I'm a terrible host."

  Quixotina laughed too, a freer sound now.

  "You're being clever, trying to apologize with flattery," she said, stirring the contents of the pot energetically. "But... you're right. Before, my life was much simpler. Playing with Dulcinéia, exploring the forest, surviving. Now..." she stopped stirring, her gaze lost in the steam rising from the pot. "Now I hardly play with her anymore. She finally has friends, a life. After school, she goes to play ball, to get into mischief. But..." her face lit up, "every weekend, without fail, she still crawls into my lap for me to read her a story. It's our ritual. That hasn't changed."

  The conversation flowed from there, easy and natural. They talked about the challenges of the new school, Aqua's stubbornness, the troupe's incredible performance. Carlos told her a little about the "series" from his world, trying to describe the magic of serialized stories on television, and Quixotina listened, fascinated, asking pointed questions between stirs of the pot. The kitchen filled with a warmth that went beyond the stove: the warmth of company, of shared work in silence, the soft sound of two people reconnecting beyond titles and crises.

  Finally, dinner was ready. It wasn't a royal banquet, but it was colorful and smelled divine. A golden chicken, covered with a bright yellow saffron sauce that stained the pieces of potato and carrot. Beside it, small individual pies of puff pastry, filled with a seasoned ground meat mixture and olives. A salad of dark green leaves, probably harvested from the communal garden, completed the dish. On the table, a bottle of red wine, not of the best quality, but honest, and two tin cups.

  They sat down. The first forkful of chicken Carlos took to his mouth was a revelation. The meat was tender, the saffron gave an earthy, slightly bitter flavor balanced by the sweetness of the vegetables. The pie pastry was delicious, and the filling, robust and satisfying.

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  "It's amazing, Quixotina," he said, and there wasn't a drop of false courtesy in his voice.

  She, however, chewed her own piece with a critical expression, her eyes half-closed.

  "It's still not..." she began, then sighed. "It's not as good as what I used to eat. The saffron here is different, weaker. The butter has another flavor. And the puff pastry... well, it's a miracle it even turned out edible. It's a shame. Sometimes I feel like I don't even know how to make the recipes from my own land anymore."

  Carlos reached his hand across the table, lightly touching her wrist.

  "For me," he said, his voice firm and gentle, "it's absolutely delicious. It's the best saffron chicken I've ever had. And trust me, I've had it in... in many places."

  Quixotina looked at his hand on her wrist, and a blush rose on her cheeks, visible even in the soft lamplight. She withdrew her arm with a brusque movement, but her gaze wasn't one of anger.

  "Hah!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair with theatrical determination. "I invite you to dinner, and I'm the one who ends up being comforted? That's not right. It's not going to stay like this!"

  She disappeared for a moment into the adjacent room. Carlos heard the sound of a drawer being opened, something being moved. When she returned, she held in her hands a small box of light-colored wood, simple, unadorned, but sanded smooth to the touch.

  She placed it on the table before him with a soft tap.

  "You talked about how hard it was to think of a gift for me," she said, her voice a little lower, less sure. "Well, know that it's a hundred times harder to think of something to give you. After all, what do you give the man who came from another world? Who has knowledge that seems like magic to us? Who built all this?" She made a vague gesture with her hand, encompassing the city beyond the walls. "I only know the little things about your world that you yourself tell me. It's not much."

  Carlos sat motionless, his fork forgotten on the plate. Surprise was a knot in his chest. Slowly, as if fearing the box might crumble, he pulled it closer and lifted the lid. The interior was lined with a piece of dark blue velvet, worn at the edges. And upon it...

  It was a brooch. A small rose, meticulously crafted from some silvery metal and painted an intense, almost bloody red. In the center, in place of the stamens, a small red gem was inlaid, capturing the light from the light-gems and reflecting it back in a deep, warm glow. It was both delicate and sturdy. Beautiful, but with an air of durability.

  "Quixotina..." Carlos's voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat, feeling a strange pressure behind his eyes. The last time I got a gift... the thought passed, quick and painful, tracing a line back to a life that already felt like a faded dream. The last time was before I came here. And even there, in the end, it was just obligations. "You didn't... you didn't have to."

  But the words sounded hollow, and he knew it. She knew it too.

  "How 'didn't have to'?" she retorted, picking up the brooch from the box with a delicacy that contrasted with her calloused hands. Her fingers were warm when they touched the collar of his shirt as she pinned the brooch to the fabric. The metal felt cool for an instant against his chest before absorbing body heat. "You've done so much. For me, for Dulcinéia, for everyone here. And I... I found out from Tassi, who is a terrible secret-keeper by the way, that you arrived in this world last year. In June. So this is a late welcoming gift."

  She stepped back, her ruby eyes fixed on his, challenging and yet vulnerable.

  "I wanted to give you this on your birthday. But there's a small problem: nobody knows when your birthday is. So, no more mysteries. Tell me. Now."

  Carlos took a deep breath, recomposing himself. The weight of the brooch on his chest was comforting, a firm, real anchor point.

  "November twenty-fourth," he said. And then, a small smile appeared on his lips. "And yours? I don't know anything about you either, Quixotina. Only fragments."

  She seemed surprised for a moment, as if she had never considered that her own story could be a mystery to him.

  "You're right," she admitted, her voice softer. "I still have a lot to tell you. My birthday... it's not far from yours. It's December fourth." She paused, looking at the brooch on his chest. "And I did this also to make up for... well, for kicking you that morning. Apparently, according to gossip that reached my ears, I 'soiled your presidential image.'"

  Carlos laughed, a true and carefree sound.

  "You didn't soil anything," he said, waving a hand. "If anything, it solidified my image as a leader who doesn't just stay behind a desk. And I... I apologize for speaking ill of you that day. It was unfair and petty."

  At that moment, the light seemed to change. Or perhaps it was just the way he saw her. The light from the gems illuminated her profile, softening the strong lines of her face, making the red eyes glow like embers under ashes. There was a frankness there, an absence of the usual armor, that he had never seen before. The word came out before he could think, laden with a simple and overwhelming truth.

  "You are... very beautiful, you know that?"

  As the words echoed in the quiet air, his hand, almost of its own volition, rose. His fingers touched her face, tracing the line of her jaw, feeling the smooth, warm skin under his fingertips. It was a light touch, almost reverent.

  Quixotina trembled under his touch. Her face ignited in a deep blush that went from her cheekbones to the tips of her ears. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly in a caught breath. She seemed to stop breathing, her body leaning imperceptibly forward, her eyelids half-closing in an expectation that was a silent and powerful invitation.

  The kiss she expected, that the air seemed to demand, did not come. Carlos hesitated, caught between the desire burning in his chest and an avalanche of doubts and fears. Is this right? Does she really want this? What if I ruin everything? What if...

  The moment of hesitation stretched until it became palpable. And then, Quixotina's eyes opened completely. Expectation gave way to a spark of frustrated fury, and then to a stubborn resignation.

  "You really are the most cowardly and indecisive man I've ever met, Carlos," she murmured, her voice a mix of irritation and deep affection.

  And then, she made the decision he couldn't.

  In a fluid motion, she stood up, closed the small distance between them, her hands finding his face and pulling him close. And she kissed him.

  It wasn't an impulsive or aggressive kiss. It was slow. Deliberate. Her lips were softer than he had imagined, and they tasted of red wine and saffron. It was a kiss that explored, that asked and answered at the same time. A romantic kiss, the kind only Quixotina, with her romantic knight's heart, would know how to give. The external world—the city, the Republic, the wars—blurred, reduced to the warmth of her lips, her taste, the smell of rosemary and warm skin that surrounded her.

  When they finally separated, it was by only a few centimeters. Her breathing was fast, her eyes shining like liquid gems in the dark.

  "That," she whispered, her voice hoarse and laden with emotion, "was the best kiss of my life. Although... you don't have much competition. You're only the second man I've ever kissed."

  The words, so honest and disarming, broke the last vestige of tension. Carlos laughed, a sound muffled against her lips, and then it was he who leaned forward, capturing her mouth again. This time, there was no hesitation. It was a kiss of response, of confirmation, of all the unspoken feelings that had built up between them for months.

  And from there, everything was a natural, urgent, and gentle unfolding. The kisses deepened, hands explored, finding buttons and laces along the way. They rose from the table, still intertwined, and moved towards the bedroom in a slow sway of bodies adjusting to each other. Pieces of clothing—the apron, the shirt, the vest—fell to the floor of the living room, marking a trail of sudden, long-overdue intimacy. The bedroom door closed with a soft click, leaving behind the table with the remains of dinner, the half-empty wine cups, and the red metal brooch gleaming solitary on the tablecloth, a silent promise in the heart of the night.