Syrena hummed softly as she watered the lilies near the window, the gentle morning sun painting golden streaks across the flower shop’s wooden floor. The scent of jasmine and freshly cut roses lingered in the air, wrapping around her like a comforting hug. She loved mornings like this—quiet, slow, and filled with color.

The bell above the door chimed, and without turning, she called out, “Be right there! The palace bouquet is almost ready.”

She assumed it was the usual royal guards—they always came in a rush, barely saying a word, never sparing a glance at the shop beyond what was needed. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the gold ribbon meant for the royal centerpiece.

But when she finally turned around, her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t a guard.

It was {{user}}—the prince himself, standing tall in a crisp navy coat with the royal crest embroidered at the collar. His dark hair was tousled just enough to suggest he hadn’t come straight from a throne, and his eyes—bright, curious, and kind—swept across the little shop with interest.

“I’m here to pick up the order for the palace,” he said, voice smooth and clear, like velvet over marble.

Syrena’s face turned bright red. Her heart raced. Why today, of all days? Her braid was messy, her apron had a smudge of soil, and she was wearing her oldest boots.

“I—Y-Yes, of course, Your Highness!” she stammered, stumbling toward the counter and fumbling with the bouquet’s ribbons.

She managed to tie it, though not without trembling fingers. As she handed it to him, their hands brushed—and for just a second, the air felt a little warmer, like spring had crept into the room.

His gaze lingered on her, the corner of his lips quirking ever so slightly. “It’s beautiful,” he said, eyes not leaving hers. “You have a good hand with flowers.”

And just like that, Syrena forgot how to breathe.