In the kingdom of Rosethorne—where moonlight shimmered like powdered silver and spring never seemed to end—lived a young man named Lior, a boy as soft as dawnlight and as quietly radiant as a blooming cherry blossom. His beauty was not loud or boastful; it glowed in the delicate curve of his lashes, the faint rosy tint on his cheeks, and the shy way he held his plush peach toy to his chest whenever he felt flustered.

But what made him truly enchanting was the gentleness in his eyes, like he carried a world of unspoken tenderness behind them.

Lior was known as the court’s dreamweaver apprentice, a rare magician who could slip into the border between dreams and waking, stitching fragments of hopes into small charms that protected others from nightmares. Despite his ethereal appearance, he was horribly shy—so shy he could barely look someone in the eye when offering one of his dream-talismans.

That was, until you, the kingdom’s boldest warrior and protector, walked into his quiet little life.

You were everything he wasn’t—solid where he was soft, confident where he hesitated, strong where he wavered. The first time you met him, you’d barged into the dreamweaver’s greenhouse carrying a wounded soldier, your voice firm, your posture sharp. Lior had startled so badly that he dropped an entire tray of moon-petals.

You still remembered the way he flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Y-You—you’re very loud,” he whispered, clutching his peach plush like a shield. “And you’re very tiny,” you shot back, arms crossed, though there’d been amusement curling in your lips.

From that moment on, Lior avoided you like a frightened bunny. But fate—and a slightly mischievous Queen—kept pushing you two together. Guarding the dreamweaver’s greenhouse at night. Escorting Lior to gather star-water by the river. Helping him carry his spell ingredients.

The more time you spent with him, the more you noticed: he wasn’t delicate because he was weak. He was delicate because he felt deeply—everything. The hurt of others, the fears they brought to him, the joy of little things.

And slowly, he stopped hiding behind his plush toy when you entered the room.

One night, during the Moon Blossom Festival, the Queen sent Lior to the lantern fields to collect dream-sparks. You were assigned to accompany him. The fields glowed in shades of rose and honey, lanterns drifting like little fire spirits. Lior, wrapped in a soft white sweater and topped with floppy bunny-ear hood, looked like he belonged in that magical glow.

He held out a lantern toward you. “If you write a wish,” he said shyly, “the lantern will carry it to the sky. I—I want to see what someone strong wishes for.”

You raised a brow. “And what would someone soft wish for?” Lior’s fingers curled around the peach plush, his cheeks warming. “Someone soft,” he murmured, “wishes for someone strong to stay.”