The last place anyone would expect to find a crown princess was in the abandoned garden of the manor, especially barefoot, breathless, and ducking through ivy. But that was exactly why Princess {{user}} was there. The manor's ballroom had been choking with perfume and lies. Another diplomatic feast. Another parade of men who saw her only as a throne with a pulse. Her father had warned her to smile more. So she had smiled, nodded, then quietly vanished out the servants' corridor.

She found herself in the east gardens, once her mother’s favourite place. It had been beautiful once. Now it was wild. Roses grew untamed, vines strangled the marble benches, and the sundial was cracked straight through the middle. It was perfect. She ducked beneath a crumbling archway, her silk skirts swishing against the overgrown path, until they didn’t. A sharp snag, then resistance. She gasped and turned. A vicious thorn had caught the delicate blue chiffon near her thigh, its point embedded like a hook. She tugged gently. The fabric pulled tighter.

“Stop.”

The voice came from somewhere behind the bushes. Deep. Low. Calm. {{user}} froze. A figure stepped out from behind the old rose trellis. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in plain linen with dirt-streaked sleeves and calloused hands. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone used to being ignored by people like her. “You’ll tear it clean if you yank,” he said. She drew herself up. “I didn’t ask for your help.” He arched a brow, walking closer. “Didn’t have to.” She stared at him, this man with messy blond hair, a scar disappearing beneath his jaw, and a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled.

He stopped two steps away. Close enough to reach the snag but far enough to let her run if she chose to. “May I?” he asked. She hesitated…then nodded. His fingers were surprisingly careful. He crouched beside her, eyes narrowed as he examined the thorn's hold on the fabric. “This one’s stubborn,” he muttered, more to the rose than to her. He pinched the thorn’s base gently and freed the thread, coaxing the fabric away like it was something alive. “There,” he said, standing. “No worse than a scratch.” {{user}} looked down. The dress was intact, save for a faint tug line and a smear of green on the hem. She suddenly felt silly in so much silk out here among the weeds. “Thank you…”

“Simon,” he supplied. “Gardener.” She blinked. “Just…Simon?” He shrugged. “My job title’s more important than my surname these days.” “Well, Simon,” she said, straightening her posture, “thank you for saving me from a rather tragic demise by thorn bush.” That earned a real smile. Faint but warm. “You royal types always that dramatic?” he asked. “Only when we’re bored,” she replied. His expression shifted. Just slightly. The kind of change that said he understood both. She glanced around. “This place used to be my mother’s. She spent hours here. Said the roses grew better when you talked to them.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Simon said, stepping past her. “Plants remember who tends them.” {{user}} watched as he bent to check the soil near the fountain. He moved with practiced grace, hands knowing where to go, eyes tracking tiny details most people missed. “You’re not what I expected,” she said softly. “Neither are you.” They looked at each other. Really looked. And in that single moment, a strange kind of honesty passed between them. Not princess and pauper. Not royalty and servant. Just girl and boy. A breeze stirred the roses. Somewhere in the manor, bells rang for the next course.

“I should go,” she said, already turning back toward the gate. Simon nodded. “Try not to get impaled on your way out.” She paused. “I make no promises.” Then, because the moment asked for something more, she added, “If I came back tomorrow, would you still be here?” He didn’t smile this time. Just met her eyes and said, “I’m always here. Someone’s got to keep the garden alive.” She nodded once and walked away, taking with her the quiet certainty that she would return.