Is There A Romantic Subplot In 'Glint'?

I just finished 'Glint' last week, and the romantic subplot totally caught me off guard in the best way. It sneaks up on you like a slow burn—no insta-love here. The protagonist and their mysterious ally start off as reluctant partners, trading sarcastic quips during missions. But as they uncover secrets together, the tension becomes electric. One scene where they’re trapped in a collapsing ruin, hands brushing while scrambling for escape? Chef’s kiss. The romance isn’t the main focus, but it adds depth to their character arcs. Their loyalty shifts from ‘I tolerate you’ to ‘I’d take a bullet for you’ in such a natural way. If you enjoy relationships that develop through shared trauma and mutual respect, this’ll hit the spot. Bonus: the payoff in the final chapters is satisfying without overshadowing the main plot.

As someone who analyzes narrative structures for fun, 'Glint' handles romance with surprising subtlety. The subplot isn’t tagged as romance in marketing because it defies tropes—no grand confessions or love triangles. Instead, it mirrors the book’s themes of trust and deception. The protagonist, a hardened thief, initially views their love interest as a mark. Every interaction is laced with double meanings; even compliments feel like psychological warfare. But when the love interest risks their reputation to protect the protagonist from a political scandal, the dynamic fractures beautifully.

The author uses physicality to show progression. Early fights have them back-to-back, professional. Later, they fight side by side, reacting to each other’s movements instinctively. A standout moment involves them sharing a cloak during a sandstorm—no dialogue, just fingers interlacing under fabric. What sells it is the aftermath: neither acknowledges it, but their behavior changes. The thief stops pocketing the other’s belongings; the love interest starts leaving doors unlocked. For fans of 'The Lies of Locke Lamora', this’ll feel familiar yet fresh. The romance culminates in a quiet ‘what if’ conversation that lingers long after the last page.

Let’s cut to the chase: yes, there’s romance, but it’s messy and human. These characters don’t have time for flowers and poetry—they’re too busy surviving a magic war. Their attraction manifests through shared exhaustion, like falling asleep mid-conversation in the same chair or passing a canteen without asking. The love interest is the only person who calls out the protagonist’s self-sacrificing BS, which says more than any love letter could.

What I adore is how their cultural differences play into it. She’s nobility; he’s a street rat. When she tries to formally court him with a dance at a ball, he hilariously missteps every tradition. Later, he teaches her to pick locks, and the scene turns oddly intimate. The book balances humor and tenderness perfectly. No spoilers, but that moment when she uses his slang in front of her horrified family? Worth the read. If you liked the gritty romance in 'Six of Crows', this’ll be your jam.