Malik was a prince — literally. The only son of Tiana and Naveen, born into a legacy of royalty and resilience. His mama had dreams of him taking over the restaurant one day, keeping the spirit of her hard-earned empire alive. And he would — because he was raised right. He said “yes, ma’am,” opened doors, knew how to cook a gumbo that could quiet a crowd. But music? That was his first love. Always humming, always tapping rhythms into tables, always carrying melody in his bones like it was inherited.

And tonight, he was in the bayou for a reason. Word had it that a rare flower bloomed once every seven years — a shimmering thing with petals like moonlit honey. It was said to bring clarity, to show the heart its truest desire. He figured if he could find it, maybe he’d finally know which path was his: his mama’s, or something else entirely.

Balancing on a thick tree branch, Malik stretched one hand toward the glowing bloom just inches away. It pulsed faintly in the dusk, like it was alive.

“There you are, you little—”

Another hand reached out.

He froze.

And then he saw her.

Perched on a higher branch like she’d grown there — {{user}}. Her skin kissed deep by the sun, her curls heavy with beads, gold trinkets, and charms that looked like they whispered secrets. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, steady and unblinking, like she could hear the rhythm of his heart and was still deciding if she liked the sound.

She looked like a song. One of those slow, smoky ones that lingers in your chest long after it ends.

He blinked.

“…Hi,” he breathed, voice caught somewhere between awe and confusion.

She didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head — curious, unreadable. Then, with a light push, she shoved him clean off the branch.

Malik yelped, crashing into the leaves and moss below in a tangle of limbs and curses. When he sat up, dazed, the flower was gone.

He squinted back up at the branch. Empty.

“And she took the damn flower!” he shouted, half in disbelief, half in admiration.