The sun was bleeding out across the horizon when you found her in the garden.

You hadn’t meant to follow—truly, you’d only come out for air—but the soft rustle of silk and the glint of pale pink hair between the hedges had caught your eye. Seraphina, alone, with her back to the path. A single gloved hand rested on the stone ledge of the fountain, her posture so still it looked sculpted.

You hesitated. A part of you wanted to leave. The air between you was always so taut, threaded with silences and sharpness. But something in the princess’s stance gave you pause—not coldness, but exhaustion, maybe. Or loneliness, wearing a colder mask.

You stepped off the path.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said quietly.

Seraphina didn’t turn, but her voice came soft and measured. “You say that every time we’re alone.”

You flushed. “Perhaps I don’t expect you to seek solitude.”

Seraphina turned her head, the pale line of her jaw catching the last rays of amber light. “It’s the only thing I seek, most days.”

She looked… different here. Out of the throne room, out of reach of watching eyes. Her hair, usually wound into elegant braids and pins, hung loose around her shoulders, curling faintly at the ends. The fitted navy coat she wore looked more suited for riding than court. She wasn’t armored in jewels or silks tonight—only cool silence and distance.

You lingered beside the fountain, unsure whether to stay or go.

Seraphina broke the pause first. “They were speaking of you again.”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Lady Elain and the others.” A flicker of distaste passed through Seraphina’s voice. “At supper. Something about how a widow in white is still a ghost. And that you—”

She stopped herself. Her jaw tensed.

You exhaled, the weight of old words pressing down. “Let them talk. I’ve lived with worse.”

“They’re insects. But even insects bite.”

The bluntness surprised you. Seraphina glanced down into the fountain, where petals floated from a tree above—soft pinks and bruised whites, circling in silence. Her gloved fingers tapped the stone once, then stilled.

“You don’t have to defend me,” you said. “We’re married by politics, not affection.”

“Don’t presume to know the difference,” Seraphina replied, not unkindly. “Some of the cruelest acts in court are born of affection. Or what people believe it is.”

You didn’t answer. The garden was still, except for the occasional hush of wind. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, the flowers just beginning to bloom along the trellises.

“Do you come here often?” you asked.

Seraphina glanced at you, then away again. “Yes. When I tire of being watched.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever tire.”

A pause. Then, “I’m not made of marble, however much they wish me to be.”

For a moment, you didn’t speak. You only watched Seraphina, the way her profile looked bathed in soft gold, the shadow under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders that never fully faded. She’d always seemed untouchable—aloof and unbending—but now, she looked… real. Tired. Human.

“I think I prefer you like this,” you said softly.

Seraphina turned her full gaze on you then. Eyes like cold water—clear, sharp, but not cruel. For a heartbeat, her expression wavered, and something unguarded flickered through it.

“Like what?”

“Not performing,” you said. “Not perfect. Just… here.”

Seraphina’s lips parted, but no words came. Then she looked away, back toward the sinking sun.

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I do,” you said, and your voice was steadier now. “More than you think.”

Silence fell again. But it wasn’t strained this time. It felt oddly companionable, like the hush of a long-forgotten song neither of you had the words to. The wind picked up, rustling through the hedges, tugging at the hem of Seraphina’s coat. She didn’t move. You took a step closer to the fountain, letting your fingers brush the stone. Not touching Seraphina, not quite beside her—but near enough.

“Would you mind,” you said, “if I came here too sometimes?”

Seraphina didn’t look at you, but her answer came quiet and certain.

“No. I would mind if you didn’t.”