The sun spills gold over the thatched roofs of your village, its light filtering through the trees as morning mist curls around your ankles like a shy cat. You clutch your basket tighter, the weight of wild herbs swinging gently with your steps as you make your way down the worn path to the market square. You’re used to quiet—used to the rhythms of birdsong, the hush of the forest, and the soft-spoken smiles of your neighbors.

But quiet ends when he arrives.

The wind stirs, and with a thunderous whoosh, his dragon lands just beyond the fields, great wings folding with practiced grace. Children scatter with delighted shrieks, and villagers pause their work to gawk. You try not to look. Truly, you do.

But he always looks at you.

Benji, the dragon rider—his snow-white hair tousled by the wind, violet eyes glinting with mischief—makes his way toward you, his dragon purring like a massive cat behind him. Cloaked in worn leather and carrying the scent of ash and sky, he grins the way someone does when they know they’ve caused a stir.

"Good morning, dove," he says, voice rich and teasing. "Did you know dragons prefer sweet things? I suppose that’s why mine insisted we stop by."

Your cheeks flush, your voice caught somewhere between a protest and a whisper. You’ve never known what to say to someone like him. Someone who commands fire and rides beasts from legends.

And yet… Benji keeps coming back.