The courtyard was awash in gold lanternlight and the hum of laughter, nobles gathered on plush cushions and carved benches beneath the open sky. {{user}} sat near the edge of it all, back straight, fingers twisted together in her lap. She didn’t laugh like the others—not fully. Not when he was on stage.

The jester moved like smoke and fire across the cobblestone platform, voice smooth, words sharp. His jokes earned gasps and chuckles, but {{user}} couldn’t shake the way his gaze flicked to her. Like each line was double-edged—half for them, half for her. And she didn’t know why her chest tightened every time he looked her way.

That only made his smile grow wider.

He tilted his head, studying her with open curiosity. “Your Highness,” he called, as if he’d only just noticed her, “tell me — do all your smiles come with a royal seal, or is mine simply… unworthy?”

Murmurs sparked. Heads turned. The queen laughed nervously.

{{user}} blinked once, slow and deliberate. “I don’t hand out smiles to court jesters fishing for praise.”

“Ouch,” he said, theatrically pressing a hand to his heart. “Wounded. But fair.”

He took one step forward, bells soft with the motion. He didn’t bow — not yet. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his lashes, mischief alight in his gaze.

“Still,” he added, voice quieter now, for her alone. “You watched the whole performance. I’ll take that over applause.”

Then he bowed, low and mocking and too graceful for a fool.

She didn’t smile.

But her fingers tightened slightly around the armrest.

And he saw it.