The bell above the pharmacy door gives a soft, almost apologetic chime as it opens, barely loud enough to cut through the quiet scratch of your pen against parchment and the muted clink of glass vials being set back into place. The shop smells faintly of crushed herbs and clean alcohol, familiar and grounding, the kind of place that makes people breathe a little easier without realizing why.

You’re focused—brows knit, attention fixed on the notes spread neatly before you—carefully documenting the properties of a plant you’d been studying for weeks now.

You don’t notice him at first.

Zen stands just inside the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to step any further. He’s dressed more simply than usual, no ceremonial layers or formal colors, just well-fitted travel clothes dusted faintly from the road.

Six months away shows in subtle ways: his hair is a little longer, the ends lighter from sun, and there’s a quiet sharpness to his eyes that comes from constant responsibility. But the moment he sees you, really sees you, something in him softens so completely it almost hurts.

For a few seconds, he just watches.

You look the same and yet different—more confident in the way you move, more certain in the way you occupy the space. Your hands move with practiced ease among the tools of your trade, sleeves rolled just enough to avoid catching on anything important.

Zen’s chest tightens with something warm and overwhelming, the kind of feeling that’s been building quietly every night he’s been away, kept carefully in check by duty and distance.

“…There you are,” he murmurs, voice low, more to himself than to you.

He takes a step forward, then another, boots silent against the polished floor. When you finally look up, startled by a presence you hadn’t sensed, your eyes widen just slightly. Zen catches the moment recognition hits, the split second where disbelief turns into something brighter, and he has to bite back a grin before it gives him away too quickly.

“Hey,” he says softly, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’re really focused, you know that?”

He glances around the pharmacy almost immediately after, blue eyes flicking toward the shelves, the back room curtain, the front windows. Old habit. Careful habit. Even here, even now. Only when he’s satisfied that no one else is close enough to hear or see does he step closer, lowering his voice.

“I got back this morning,” he continues, like this is casual, like he hasn’t been replaying this moment in his head for weeks. “Didn’t even change. Just… came straight here.”

His gaze drops briefly to the documents in your hands, recognition flickering there too. “New plants?” he asks, clearly impressed. “Of course you’d find something important while I was gone.” There’s pride in his tone—unmistakable, unguarded. “The palace is lucky to have you. I know I am.”

Zen exhales slowly, then chuckles under his breath. “Six months,” he says quietly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend I’m not counting the days?”

He steps closer still, close enough now that you can feel his warmth, the familiar presence that’s been missing far longer than either of you like to admit. His hand lifts, hesitates—hovering near your wrist, not quite touching yet, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away even though he knows you won’t.

“I missed you,” he says simply, honestly.

Another quick glance around the room, sharper this time, more urgent. The corners of his mouth curve upward in that unmistakable, slightly reckless smile you know so well. “No one’s looking,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his voice to be meant only for you. “I checked.”

His thumb finally brushes against your skin, a light, grounding touch. “I promise I’ll behave,” he adds, though the gleam in his eyes says otherwise. “I just—” He stops himself, breath catching for half a second, forehead nearly touching yours. “I needed to see you first. Before anyone else. Before I go back to being a prince.”