TPWTL 49

#49. I Just Called Your Name.

The moment Cryer’s whisper slid down the crown of her head, Olivia’s shoulders trembled. Just now, he had… he hadn’t called her “Princess,” he had called her Olivia—by her name… right? No, maybe she misheard. She must have misheard. As if reading her thoughts, Cryer spoke again.

“Olivia.”

The clarity of the name left no room for mishearing. Olivia’s eyes shot open. She didn’t lift her head, so her view was dark, but somehow her other senses sharpened. The scent brushing her nose—a mixture of aged paper from old books and a cool, wind-like fragrance—made her pupils wobble as if struck by an earthquake. It wasn’t unusual for Cryer to be so close, so why did her heart feel like a wild stallion running rampant? By her name? Calling her by her name? Why? Why now, all of a sudden?

“Why here…?”

“W-why are you suddenly calling me by my name?”

Before Cryer could answer, Olivia blurted it out. Her face buried in her knees, her voice cracked and jumbled, but Cryer understood her perfectly. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he smiled, looking down at the cascade of crimson hair spilling over her thin shoulders. Sunlight filtered through the massive bookshelves surrounding them, mingling with the faint scent of dry wood, deepening the quiet. How long had they been in silence—seconds? Minutes? Impatient, Olivia wiggled her toes hidden under the folds of her dress, but she didn’t want to—or couldn’t—lift her head. Being caught peeking at him, she felt, would disgrace the princess’s dignity. Though… with Cryer, the concept of “princess” or “dignity” had never really applied. Still, the faintest trace of shame or embarrassment rose, heating her face. Or no—that thought was just an excuse. The truth was clear: he had called her by her name for the first time. That was all. And her face burned so intensely she couldn’t even lift her head.

“Don’t call me that. Stop it. You can just say ‘Princess’ like always.”

Unsure why she felt this way, unsure what to do, Olivia instinctively tried to stop the cause of this chaos. But because she didn’t look up, she couldn’t see Cryer’s expression at the words—a mix of hunger and satisfaction. He finally spoke, looking at her hair again.

“Olivia.”

But he didn’t stop. He continued to call her by name. Once. And then again.

“Olivia.”

“Don’t… call me that—”

“Olivia.”

Each time he said her name, Olivia flinched, and her round forehead peeked out from between her knees. Its redness brought an inexplicable satisfaction to Cryer. From the moment Olivia arrived, he had noticed her presence. He couldn’t hear her breathing or heartbeat, but he could hear her footsteps. Everyone’s steps were different, but the sound he remembered was hers—Olivia Bolsheike’s. The slight drag of her left foot, the unique rhythm. Not just her steps, but everything about her. The more familiar Olivia became to Cryer, the more he realized how much he knew about her—things most people never would. Things he would never tell anyone. A version of Olivia known only to him. Not a bad feeling. And even now, it was still not bad.

He hadn’t acted on knowing her for any special reason. At first, he assumed she would chatter away as she approached him, so he didn’t look up from his book. When she didn’t call him or approach, he still thought nothing of it. He planned to finish his few pages and look up, but she didn’t come closer. She hid a few steps away, watching. He sighed softly, closing his book, but the image of her fidgeting behind the shelves made him smile. So he waited. He didn’t call her or approach. But when she finally sat down, still hiding yet doing nothing, he approached her.

There was no particular reason for calling her by her name. Seeing her crouched low, her head buried, it simply slipped out. He continued even after she told him not to, simply because she had told him to stop. Seeing her forehead, he wanted to see her face.

“If you don’t lift your head, I’ll keep calling you… Olivi—”

“Alright, alright! Stop calling me that!”

She said it loudly, but her head stayed buried for a while. Her neck, pale against the crimson hair, burned so intensely it made Cryer oddly hungry. Just as he was about to open his lips to smile, Olivia slowly raised her head.

She lifted it at a snail’s pace, eyes tightly shut, covering her face with her hands. But her cheeks, already as red as ripe apples, couldn’t be hidden. Not just her cheeks—the redness spread from the tip of her nose to her ears. Though she shielded her eyes, she could feel Cryer’s gaze piercing through. Unlike when her face was buried, the cool air teased her cheeks, yet the heat only seemed to rise. Luckily, Cryer didn’t forcibly move her hands. Instead, Olivia asked a question she hadn’t expected.

“Why did I say don’t call me that?”

“What?”

“You said not to call me by my name, right?”

Cryer regarded her lazily, then asked again.

“Why shouldn’t I call you by your name? Like you, I only called your name.”

It was true. It wasn’t an insult, a nickname, or a title—it was the name she’d been given at birth. Cryer had just said it. Olivia, lost for words, felt her throat tighten. Cryer gently lowered her small, soft hands that had covered her face. With her shield gone, she desperately avoided his eyes, rolling them restlessly. Her gaze fell on a bookshelf holding forty years of Bolsheike history, and a soft voice brushed her ear.

“Is there a reason I can’t call your name?”

There was none. It wasn’t cursed, and their relationship had already passed the point of polite indignation. But if she didn’t speak, he would continue calling her, so she managed to whisper.

“B…bu—”

Her voice broke into a faint sigh, scattered into nothing. But Cryer didn’t wait. Like a small rabbit you can’t help but want to hold when it tries to hide, he leaned in, though she was right in front of him.

“Look at me when you say it. Olivia.”

Knowing she would never meet his eyes while blushing this way, Cryer said it anyway. Her small ears peeked through her hair, redder than her cheeks. Thoughts of running away flitted through her mind dozens of times a second, but running wouldn’t solve anything. Or… maybe it would! The best solution would be to escape, right? As Olivia steeled herself and glanced toward the door, her view was blocked—Cryer’s hand covering her line of sight—and a quiet voice whispered.

“I didn’t think you’d try to run.”

“Why are you stopping me?”

“Then I’ll take it as permission to keep calling you by your name.”

“No, that’s not it!”

Though there must have been ways to escape, none came to mind. Chewing her lip, Olivia finally turned her gaze toward Cryer. Her blue eyes, full of indignation, shook like a boat in a storm. His hand slowly moved, brushing hair away from her flushed cheek and behind her red ears, and he whispered:

“Now, say it.”

Seeing her face reflected in his dark red eyes, Olivia clamped her mouth shut. A low laugh slipped into her ear. Even the faint vibration from his hand, still lightly resting on her cheek, confirmed he was laughing, and she couldn’t even entertain silly thoughts about it. Olivia realized she could be even more embarrassed than just moments ago, feeling a wave of inexplicable shame. And inwardly, she had to scream—she didn’t want to realize such pointless things!