Chapter 64 Why Do You Like To Get Dressed up This Much?

They moved through the market as if tied together by an invisible ribbon. Stalls bloomed along the narrow lane—textiles hung like waterfalls, spices smoked in clay pots, and trinkets winked from half-hidden boxes.

Alexander’s eyes were all appetite—for colour, for texture, for the small, shining things that made the world feel less sharp. As an orphan, he had learned how to be self-sufficient. Yet, this was a bit different. He was in the past. So, a lot of things would be different.

The ribbon stall came first. A woman with grease-blackened fingers and a laugh that cut through the crowd ran her hands over bolts of ribbon in every imaginable shade.

"See? We found your ribbon stall? Tell me, do you really like to get dressed up this much?" Elaine teased him. The omega was too beautiful for his own good. She was still very much horny for him right now.

"Of course! When you get dressed up every day, your tastes change. Besides, it’s a daily occurrence for me." He blushed slightly. It had now become a habit for him. Besides, he was an omega... he had the right to dress up however he wanted.

"Okay, okay. I am not commenting on this matter anymore."

"Good."

Alexander’s hand dipped and came up heavy; he gathered a handful—silks, satins, gauze that fluttered like moth wings—and began to bargain with the single-minded enthusiasm of someone who had rehearsed pleasure in private.

"I’ll give you three for that strip of moon-silver and two for each of these," he told the stall owner, voice bright. He fingered a ribbon the colour of dusk and tucked it into the fold of his skirt.

Elaine hovered, arms already full of the odd small goods he pointed out—two fragrant sachets, a carved wooden comb, a string of painted beads.

When his pile grew too large, she took the heavier bundles without complaint, balancing them expertly against her hip as if she’d been carrying market spoils her whole life. Afterall, she didn’t want his wife to be angry at him.

They stopped at a potter’s stall where Alexander insisted on a set of small cups, each painted with tiny fish.

"For tea," he declared, though their apartment could hardly be called modest enough for another set of ceramics.

Elaine only raised an eyebrow and lifted the pottery into the crook of one arm. When a vendor offered him a brass bell with a crooked handle, Alexander bought it on principle and then argued with the man over the sound it made until both were laughing.

Food drew them like a magnet, mostly Alexander. Elaine steered him toward steaming carts where vendors grilled meat skewers, seared pancakes folded with scallions, and skewers of fruit sugar-glazed until they crackled.

Alexander sampled everything. He tore into a stuffed flatbread with reckless abandon and offered Elaine half; she refused at first, then yielded and took a bite that made her eyes close with pleasure.

They ate while they walked, sharing little pieces—fried dumplings that burst warm and savoury, sticky sugared figs that left their fingers sweet—Alexander flicking crumbs onto the ground like a careless princess.

Each time Alexander reached for another treat, Elaine’s arms grew fuller.

She carried his ribbon bundles, the pottery, the leather-bound notebook he insisted would be for thoughts and sketches, and a small wooden toy he pretended he wasn’t buying for himself.

Her satchel bulged; she shifted the weight, never once saying she was tired. When Alexander noticed, he tried to take something back, but she shook her head with mock seriousness.

"You purchased it," she said. "You will carry it in the kingdom of our home." He responded by buying a tiny basket and insisting she use it to transfer everything, which only made their procession more ridiculous and gratifying.

At one point, a young street musician—the kind who played with a grin and asked for no coin but plenty of admiration—began to play a slow, lilting tune on a small flute.

Alexander paused, lost in the sound, and Elaine set down a bundle to take his hand.

They stood in the little opening between stalls with the city noise folding around them, hands linked and purchases stacked at their feet like small islands.

As evening seeped into the alleys, lanterns clicked to life. The market took on a honeyed glow; colours deepened and smells changed to warm bread, honey, and smoke.

People began to drift toward the quay for the night’s fireworks—an event the city held every month for luck.

Elaine straightened, casting a careful glance at the crowd. "We should find a good spot," she said.

They threaded their way to the riverbank, where vendors sold sugared nuts and hot wine. Alexander insisted on buying candied almonds by the bagful, sharing handfuls with anyone who glanced their way.

When they found a low stone wall overlooking the water, they sat close, the piled purchases between them as if the ground itself had become a repository of their night.

Fireworks started with a hush, then a single starburst flicked the sky. The first bloom painted them in light—Elaine’s turquoise hair flared like a shock of ocean; the ribbons in Alexander’s skirt caught brief, iridescent glints.

He leaned back against her, chin tucked to her shoulder, and they watched the sky while the river reflected each cascade like a second, watery heaven.

"Isn’t it wonderful?" Alexander breathed, fingers fiddling with the moon-pin still at his nape.

"It is," Elaine answered, fingers finding the ribbons he’d purchased earlier and wrapping them loosely around his wrist. "You bought half the market."

"I bought what I loved," he corrected, voice soft. "And you carried it for me."

The next rocket sighed up and burst into a shower of gold. People around them cheered; a child nearby squealed. Elaine shifted so he could lie down against the stone and angle his head in her lap.

She draped a light shawl over his legs and smoothed the ribbons with one practiced hand. Alexander traced the seam of his skirt, eyes on the sky, the whole world reduced to the soft thrum of shared warmth and the staccato patience of fireworks.