The garden was too quiet for Langris’s liking.

The breeze was light, carrying the faint scent of lilies and trimmed hedges, and the sun hung just above the horizon, bleeding soft gold into the clouds. It was peaceful—disgustingly so.

The kind of setting people wrote poems about. The kind of place normal couples would meet for a lovely evening walk.

Not you two.

Langris sat stiffly on the edge of a stone bench, arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the gravel path.

His Golden Dawn cloak had been thrown over the back of the bench, neatly folded like always, but his hair—usually flawless—was just slightly out of place, a sign he’d run his fingers through it five too many times.

You were late. Of course you were. Typical.

Always so dramatic, taking your time like royalty didn’t apply to punctuality. Langris muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes at a passing butterfly like it personally offended him.

“Five minutes late,” he grumbled. “Probably trying to make some stupid grand entrance. Tch. Typical.”

He glanced down at the pocket watch he’d already opened three times in the last minute. His fingers were tight around it.

Jaw clenched. He told himself it was just because he hated this whole thing—not because he was nervous. You and him? Dating? Dating?! What kind of twisted joke was that?

You’d hated each other since you were kids. Always bickering, always arguing, always throwing sarcastic remarks like knives.

You once made fun of the way he folded his napkin at a royal dinner.

He once dunked your favorite quill in ink and claimed it was an “accident.” The only thing you had in common was bloodlines and pure mutual spite.

And now? Now your families were shoving the two of you into a “courtship.”

Why? Because it was “practical.” Because it would “unite noble houses.” Because it would be “good for the kingdom.”

Langris scoffed aloud at the memory. “Idiotic. Absolutely idiotic.” Still… he was here. In the garden. Waiting. Dressed nicely. With a rose.

He hated that part the most.

The stupid rose. Still clutched in his hand like a damn fool. He’d rolled his eyes when Finral gave it to him—“It softens your image, trust me”—but had kept it anyway. Probably just to shut him up. Definitely not because he wanted to impress you.

He was just about to stand, throw the rose into the bush behind him, and declare this whole date cursed—

When he heard your footsteps. Late. Confident. Unapologetic. Of course.

You rounded the path, as composed as ever, with the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth—the kind that made his eye twitch. You looked good. Annoyingly good. Which only made him angrier.

“You’re late,” Langris snapped immediately, rising from the bench like he’d been rehearsing the line. “We said six. It’s six-oh-seven. What, did you get lost on your way to your own ego?”