They called her the palace ghost.

Not because she was silent—but because she was unseen. A seamstress, tucked behind velvet curtains and stone columns, threading royal bloodlines into brocade while the court played politics. She lingered where the candlelight didn’t reach. Never announced herself. Never bowed.

She’s nothing—by rank. A seamstress with ink-stained fingers and thread tucked into her sleeves. But there’s something about her stillness. Her gaze. The way she watches him like she already knows how he’ll fall.

And Eren Jaeger hates being watched.

But he saw her.

The first time, it was nothing—just a flicker of movement near the throne room archway. The second time, she was watching him from the far end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a suit of armor. The third time, she walked past him—shoulder grazing silk to leather—without a single glance.

Prince Eren Jaeger noticed.

And once he noticed, he couldn’t stop.

He started seeking her out. Whispering her name to guards, issuing fabricated tasks just to summon her presence. He told himself it was nothing—curiosity. Boredom. But it was a lie. She lived in his mind. In the grip of his wine glass. In the burn of his throat when he tried to speak of duty.

She never flirted. Never smiled. Never tried to win him—and that made it worse. She held power without asking for it. And she knew. She saw the way his eyes lingered. The way his breath caught when she entered a room. She never gave in.

She didn’t need to.

The kingdom had promised him to another—some foreign princess with painted lips and a delicate voice. The match would end a war. Save thousands. But he couldn't even picture her face. Not when the ghost still walked the halls.

He should forget her. But he doesn’t.

He dreams of her cold hands and unsmiling mouth. Of her silence. Of her defiance.

Tonight, he’d torn the cuff of his sleeve in a meeting. He didn’t need to. But he did. And now you're here.

The chamber was quiet—just the muted sound of thread slipping through fabric.

You sat on the bench before him, stitching the torn seam of his sleeve with practiced precision. The tear was minor. It hadn’t required your attention. But he’d sent for you anyway.

Eren watched.

Not your face—you never offered that—but the movements of your hands, the way you refused to look at him. Not even when he shifted slightly, just enough to let your knuckles brush his skin.

Still, you didn’t react.

You tied off the final stitch, clipped the thread, and rose. No word. No bow. Just that same unreadable silence.

You turned toward the door.

“You don’t speak unless spoken to,” he said, his voice even. “But you don’t bow, either.”

You paused—but only for a breath. You didn’t turn.

His gaze lingered on your back, unmoving.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed?”