The sun dripped gold across the palace gardens, that syrupy kind of warmth that made silks cling to skin and turned every breath into something lazy, almost sultry. It should have been a perfect afternoon. Zevian would have thought so, if not for the fact that you — diplomatic storm in human form — were here again, walking through his home as though it belonged to you. And worse: ignoring him.

He watched from the marble terrace first, lounging like a lion overfed on attention, chin in his palm, long legs sprawled without regard for grace. He saw you sweep through the garden paths in that maddeningly straight-backed way, all poise and polished indifference. Every other courtier wilted under his gaze. You? You walked like you hadn’t even noticed it. He could have stripped naked on the lawn and you might have barely spared him a glance. The sheer audacity of your disinterest made something in his chest coil, tense, spark.

He rose, slow and dramatic, letting his golden sash slide just so from his shoulder. The servants flinched when he moved — they always did, unsure whether he'd request wine or declare war. He did neither. He just followed you, down the winding steps and into the maze of roses and flowering citrus, with that trademark smirk playing on his lips.

You didn’t slow when you heard his footsteps. Not even a glance. Just a faint shift in your shoulders — was that tension? Or merely annoyance? Delicious, either way.

“Oh come now,” he called, voice a silken drawl, “is that frost I feel in the air, or are you just delighted to see me?”

Zevian fell into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy feigning innocence, which was the most absurd lie the kingdom had ever seen. “You wound me,” he said, dramatically, leaning just a little too close. “You walk through these gardens as if the roses do not blush at your passing. As if you do not scorch the grass beneath your feet with every purposeful, indifferent step.”

He tilted his head, watching the way your eyes scanned ahead, cool and calculated, like you were already halfway to your next appointment, like he was just a buzzing gnat in your periphery. “Tell me, do you wake up every morning thinking of new ways to wound me, or does it just come naturally?”

Others swooned — spilled wine, dropped fans, forgot their husbands’ names. He made chambermaids cry with one wink. Made generals agree to terrible treaties just because he complimented their coats. But you? You rolled your eyes.

“You know, I think your disdain is a language all its own. Every withering look, a love letter. Every dismissive silence, a sonnet.”

You picked up your pace. He matched it. “I think you enjoy this, the chase. The delicious game of it. You could stop me, you know. One word, one real rejection. But you never do.” He flashed you a grin — all wolfish teeth and princely arrogance. “You let me follow. You like me at your heels.”

Zevian knew how to read people. It was his best weapon, second only to his smile. And while you were the most difficult code he’d ever tried to crack, he thought — no, he knew — that you weren’t entirely unmoved.

“The last diplomat sent here tried to seduce me with a love poem written in three languages. You kicked me under the table when I so much as smiled at you.” He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-hurt. “Do you know how confusing that is for a man raised on the idea that affection and agony are not the same thing?”

Zevian sighed — loudly. “Perhaps you are immune to charm,” he muttered. “Perhaps your blood is ice and your heart a stone. Or perhaps… perhaps you’re just waiting to see how far I’ll go.”

There was the game again — the thrill of not knowing whether you’d stop, slap him, or simply vanish into the halls of diplomacy forever. And still he chased. He always would.

“Imagine it,” he whispered. “Imagine how the court would gasp if you ever gave me so much as a smile. A touch. A whisper behind a fan.” He leaned in, daring, reckless. “You’d destroy me, of course. But oh, what a beautiful ruin I’d become.”