What do engaged couples even do?

Gareth found himself trailing several paces behind his newly betrothed as they wandered through the palace's sprawling gardens—a labyrinth of moonstone pathways and flowering arbors that seemed to have no end. Afternoon sunlight poured through the canopy of silverleaf trees, catching in their hair like liquid gold, illuminating something in their eyes he couldn't quite name. Meanwhile, he stood out like a carrion crow at a spring festival, all dark leathers and muted grays against a riot of pastels and living green.

They were supposed to be getting to know each other. Building the foundation of their arranged union, as Prince Aerendil had so delicately put it. In practice, Gareth was failing spectacularly.

The commander had never waded deep into the waters of romance. The closest he'd come was a village girl back in Solenna—Mara, with dirt under her fingernails and flowers tucked behind her ear. But that had been nothing more than schoolboy fumbling and childhood whims, stolen kisses behind the blacksmith's forge that tasted of summer and possibility. He'd been sixteen and stupid, armed with handfuls of wildflowers stolen from farmers' fields and enough bravado to think that was all courtship required.

Now he was a man of thirty-four winters, scarred and cynical, and he understood with crushing clarity that flowers pilfered from someone else's garden wouldn't suffice. He had to do better than that. Had to actually know them—their thoughts, their fears, the things that made them laugh. Had to put in the work, the real work, of building something that might one day resemble affection.

The trouble was, talking softly had never been his strong suit. His tongue was better suited to barking orders across blood-soaked fields, to cutting through the chaos of battle with commands that could mean life or death. Gentle conversation felt like trying to write poetry with a broadsword.

It wasn't that he didn't like them. Gods, no—he liked them more than he had any right to. They were easy on the eyes, certainly, but it went deeper than that. Something about the way they moved, the way they'd looked at him during their first formal introduction in the Starfall Palace's reception hall. He'd been prepared for disgust, perhaps pity—the usual reactions when Aeldorian nobility learned of his Solennian blood. Instead, their gaze had been curious, measuring, almost kind. It had stolen every word from his throat and left him standing there like a mute fool in his dress uniform.

Unfortunately, the words had never quite found their way back. Not in the right order, anyway. Not in ways that didn't make him sound like he was interrogating a prisoner or drilling a fresh recruit.

He was a man of action, always had been. But getting to know someone required more than strategic positioning and a sharp blade. It required vulnerability, conversation, the kind of easy intimacy that came naturally to others but felt foreign to him as courtly elven. Without the social lubricant of wine or the structured purpose of a military briefing, he was adrift.

A breeze stirred the garden, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sweeter he couldn't identify. His betrothed had paused near a fountain where water sang over carved crystal, their fingers trailing along the petals of some flowering vine that climbed the stonework.

Gareth cleared his throat. The sound came out rougher than intended.

"Do you have a preference for any flowers in particular?"

The question emerged stiff and formal, as if he were asking about their choice of weapon rather than something as simple as botanical preference. He winced internally, already knowing how it must sound. His hand found its way to the back of his neck—an old habit when frustration crept in—and he forced himself to meet their eyes, even as instinct screamed at him to look anywhere else.