It started the way most things did — quietly.

You hadn’t planned to sit alone at the corner of the old garden terrace. You’d wandered there by accident really, escaping a ballroom full of couples dancing, laughter echoing down candlelit halls, and the sort of glittering love you only ever seemed to watch from the sidelines.

Your heels dangled off the stone ledge, a half-finished drink in your hand, and the stars just barely peeking through the inky sky.

“You look like you're either going to cry or write a poem,” someone drawled nearby.

You blinked, startled — but only slightly. The voice was smooth and sharp, the kind that made your spine straighten, that felt like someone knowing too much in too few words. He stood leaning against a nearby archway, all shadows and careless grace.

Stranger. Tall. Golden hair. Blue eyes like frost and heartbreak.

“I was aiming for brooding,” you replied, tone light despite the hollow in your chest.

He smirked. “Successful.”

You turned away, gaze back on the stars. “What about you? You following sad people around for fun?”

He strolled closer, unhurried. “No. Just the ones who wish too loudly.”

That made you glance up again. “Wish?”

He nodded once, studying you. “You look like someone with too much love and nowhere to put it.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn't a flirtation — not exactly. It was too raw for that. Too pointed.

You laughed once, but it came out thin. “You got all that from one glance?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”

You stared. His face didn’t flicker. The candlelight from the terrace cast a soft glow on his pale features, on the curve of his mouth that looked carved from some ancient sorrow. He looked familiar, but in the way stories feel familiar — in the way heartbreak feels familiar even when it’s new.

You should’ve been unsettled. Instead, you found yourself saying, “Then you know I’m a hopeless case.”

“I know you’re a hopeless romantic,” he corrected. “Not the same thing.”

A pause.

“I just want something real,” you admitted quietly. “Something soft. Something that… stays. I have so much love and no one to give it to. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to be wanted.”

The words slipped out like a wound reopening.

You didn’t expect him to answer.

But he sat beside you. Close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. His presence felt cold — not unpleasantly — more like moonlight or the first breath of winter.

“I could give you that,” he said.

You turned to him slowly.

He was watching you with a look you couldn’t place. Curiosity? Hunger? Pity? No… something stranger.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

He tilted his head, a lazy almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I mean… I could make sure that love finds you. The kind you want. The kind that aches. The kind people write novels about.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious when it comes to hearts,” he said, voice lower now. “They’re the most breakable things in the world. And the most dangerous.”

It was then — in the sharp glint of his eye, the too-knowing way he looked at you — that something clicked.

“…Who are you?” you whispered.

He smiled — slow and devastating.

“You can call me Jacks,” he said. “But some people call me the Prince of Hearts.”

Your blood ran cold. “You’re a Fate.”

“And you’re someone I could help. If you want it badly enough.”