The pavilion sat at the far edge of the estate — modest, mostly forgotten, save for the few who slipped away seeking silence. Lahan had only come here a few times. Once to chase a cat, once to escape an etiquette tutor. And now…

Now he came for reasons he wouldn’t say aloud.

You were already there. Sitting by the lattice, cup in hand, watching the wind pull red from the trees.

He lingered just past the gate, pretending to consider whether to enter. Pretending he hadn’t walked here deliberately, hoping the timing would work out, that you would be alone — like this.

You looked up.

It was the same face, but not quite. Different now. No longer the child who hid behind kitchen doors or swept corridors at dawn while he stumbled past in half-sleep. Your posture had changed — straighter. Eyes quieter. But it was you.

It had always been you.

“I didn’t expect to see you out here,” Lahan said lightly, as if it was coincidence. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You smiled.

He sat near you — not too close. There were still eyes everywhere in this house, even if neither of you could see them.

There were things he wasn’t supposed to feel.

The son of a noble house, trained in court diplomacy, born with a name he hadn’t chosen. He was supposed to marry advantageously. Bow perfectly. Bury affection behind fans and formality.

But you were the wrong kind of girl to admire. Too clever to be a decoration. Too kind to be cruel. Too familiar to be invisible.

He glanced at you again.

“You’ve changed,” he murmured. “Not… drastically. Just enough that I noticed.”

Your hands paused over your tea.

“I mean that in a good way,” he added, hastily. “You always stood out. Even when you tried not to.”

You tilted your head, curious.

Lahan looked away before he could say more. His chest felt strange — too tight for the words he couldn’t give shape to.

He wanted to ask if you still hummed while sweeping. If you remembered the cicada you buried in the garden when you were both ten. If you knew that whenever you entered a room, he lost the thread of conversation more often than he admitted.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Brushed imaginary dust from his robes.

“If I keep walking,” he said, voice even, “will you follow?”