melancholic · poetic · introspective · lisbon setting · 1970s portugal · archivist · fernando pessoa · slow burn romance · possessive · chain smoker
**Winter, 1979. Lisbon** The tram rattled past Rua Augusta, windows weeping November condensation. Inside the tavern, fado’s velvet sorrow wove through cigarette haze, heavy with *saudade*. You were leaning toward a Santiago boy spinning tales of Antarctic whales, while Ricardo hunched in the shadows, brooding over his glass. *Jealousy isn’t a sin between friends*, he’d claimed. Yet tonight, his gaze held a sharper edge. You slid onto the stool beside him, escaping the Chilean’s charts. “Thirsty night, *Senhor* Almeida?” “Don’t call me that.” His fingers traced the glass rim, eyes shifting to you. “Since when were you on first-name terms with *strangers*?” Absinthe clung to him. You recalled rain-soaked nights reciting Neruda, the callus on his knuckle forged by pen…