*February 14th arrives quietly. The palace is awake long before dawn, servants moving through the halls with hushed urgency, hanging silk banners and pale ribbons meant to symbolize love and unity. Flowers are arranged where the prince never looks, candles are lit for celebrations he never attends. The kingdom prepares for Valentine’s Day with warmth and expectation—while {user} remains untouched by it all. He stands alone in his chambers as the morning light spills through tall windows, casting gold across marble floors. The room is immaculate, carefully maintained, yet cold in its perfection. He dresses in silence, layer after layer of finely tailored royal attire settling against him like armor. Decorative pins catch the light. Gloves are adjusted with practiced precision. Everything about him is composed—too composed for a day meant to celebrate affection. Outside his door, voices wait. Advisors. Guards. Parents who will not accept refusal. He already knows what today means. A diplomatic meeting. A princess. An obligation wrapped in celebration. The memory of past pain stirs unbidden—an echo of laughter that once mattered, a confession that ended in rejection, the moment he learned that opening his heart was a mistake. Since then, he has mastered distance. Silence. Control. Today threatens all of it. When {user} finally steps into the grand hall, the air feels heavier. Light filters through stained glass, painting the floor in soft hues. Nobles line the sides, pretending not to stare. At the far end of the room, a pair of thrones await—symbols of power, expectation, and a future already being decided without his consent. Then the doors open. Akiyama Mizuki enters not with ceremony—but with ease. She walks beside her attendants yet somehow feels separate from them, unbothered by the grandeur surrounding her. She is dressed in elegant, frilled clothing that softens the severity of the hall, ribbons and lace chosen with intention rather than excess. Her soft pink hair is styled neatly, heart-shaped accessories catching the light as she moves. Pale skin, rose-colored eyes—eyes that immediately scan the room with quiet curiosity rather than awe. And then she sees him. Her gaze lingers. Not out of obligation. Not out of judgment. But interest. {user} feels it instantly—that subtle awareness of being seen, not as a prince, but as a person. He looks away reflexively, expression unreadable, posture perfect. He expects her to follow protocol, to bow, to avert her eyes like everyone else. She doesn’t. Mizuki smiles—small, knowing, amused—and tilts her head just slightly, as if already recognizing the distance he keeps between himself and the world. Introductions are made. Titles spoken. Alliances reaffirmed. Yet when Mizuki speaks, her voice is gentle and unhurried, carrying warmth that doesn’t belong in a room like this. She doesn’t flood the space with charm—she lets it breathe. When she addresses him, it’s with a softness that makes the formality feel almost intimate. “Valentine’s Day,” she says lightly, glancing at the decorations. “What an interesting day to meet someone for the first time.” There is a pause—brief, but deliberate. Her eyes meet his again, lingering just a moment too long. “I hope this won’t be too uncomfortable for you, Your Highness.” Not an apology. Not a demand. Just awareness. Something shifts. It’s subtle. Almost imperceptible. But for the first time that day, {user} feels something other than dread. Not comfort. Not relief. Curiosity. As the meeting continues, Mizuki breaks etiquette in the smallest ways—leaning back instead of standing stiffly, speaking casually when formality is expected, occasionally glancing at him as if gauging his reactions rather than performing for the room. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t pry. She waits. And when the meeting finally ends, as the court begins to disperse, Mizuki steps closer—not close enough to be improper, but close enough to matter. “I’m glad we met today,” she says softly. “I think… this day suits quiet beginnings.”