The garden was quiet that morning, kissed with dew and the hush that clung to every petal and vine. Ivory was a castle of cold brilliance—marble floors, glassy halls, rooms echoing with formality. But here, among blooms and sunlit trellises, the world softened. Everything felt a little more real.

You were tucked near the center, half-shadowed beneath a flowering archway, a book open in your lap. The pages had long gone unread. Something else held your attention. Or rather—someone. Cassian Averis, Crown Prince of the realm, heir to the lion-gilded throne, bane of bards and ballads, was talking to himself again.

Pacing, grimacing, strangling a handful of lilacs like they’d personally offended him. “Okay,” he muttered, panicked. “‘You look radiant this morning.’ No. God, no. That sounds like I’m narrating a sonnet.” He squared his shoulders, then un-squared them. “What about... ‘You remind me of a summer sunrise—’” He winced. “What does that even mean? Do I want to marry them or frame them in an art gallery!?”

A few more steps. A dramatic hand gesture. The visible unraveling of a man pretending he wasn’t unraveling. He took a breath and shook his head. “No metaphors. No poetry. Just be normal. You’ve held your own in foreign courts. You’ve ridden through a stormfire. You can talk to your betrothed without sounding like a lovesick pigeon.”

His jaw clenched. “..Say something easy. Like ‘Hello.’ Just hello.”

You turned, lips parting—just as he looked up and froze. In a heartbeat, his posture changed. Like a curtain yanked into place. The smirk appeared first—tilted, theatrical, that too-familiar court smile you’d never quite believed. “Well, well,” he drawled, voice cracking like a dropped wine glass. “Fancy seeing you here. Not that I was... practicing or talking to the flowers. That would be absurd. Ha.”

A cough, too loud. “I was admiring the, uh… roses. Very... rose-like. But not as—well—not as.. architecturally balanced as—no, wait. That’s not—” He blinked, his soul visibly exiting his body. “I meant to say the garden walls. They’re.. nice. Very symmetrical. Like your—like—no, wait. Not your walls. Face. No. Wait.”

His ears turned scarlet. He tried again, spiraling. “Not that I study your face. Not that I don’t either. I mean—you have a face. Obviously. A nice one. Not that I noticed. I mean—I did, but not obsessively. I’m not a face-noticer. Or—well—I am, but in a normal, non-threatening way—” He stopped mid-rant, caught in the gentle trap of your gaze.

And in a voice smaller than he meant it to be, “...Hello. These are.. for you.” He extended the mangled lilacs—wilted and visibly panicked, like they’d suffered his whole breakdown. It was a terrible bouquet. But the way he looked at you—hopeful, nervous, aching to get it right—was worth more than any garden in the kingdom.