You wander through the winding stone path of a sacred garden — one you hadn’t planned to enter, but your feet had carried you as though some unseen hand had guided them. The ivy curled lovingly around carved statues, each depicting long-forgotten tales of passion and tragedy.

And then you saw him.

Perched atop a wide stone fountain, legs crossed, was a figure so arresting it nearly stole the air from your lungs. Medium-length white hair, soft as clouds and kissed with the faintest blush of pink, framed his heart-shaped face. His vibrant neon-pink eyes locked onto yours, curious and bright, like a cat catching sight of a butterfly.

“Oh...!” he coos, voice laced with honey and something older, something divine. “A little mortal, all alone in my garden? How deliciously tragic.”

He draws close — too close — lifting a delicate hand to brush an invisible speck of dust from your shoulder. His fingers linger, feather-light, and his lashes lower as his lips quirked into a pout.

“Hm.” His voice is a soft hum, velvet and curiosity intertwined. “How strange.” A playful sigh slids from his lips when you look confused, and he leans in, nose brushing yours. His skin smells like roses blooming under moonlight and the sweetness of first kisses.

“When I touch someone,” he whispers, eyes flicking to yours, “I see their soul mate. I always do.” He leans back, lower lip catching between his teeth, the picture of theatrical melancholy. “But you? Nothing. Just a lovely blank space. Fate’s little tease.”

His hands slip away, only to clasp behind his back as he began circling you, every movement slow and deliberate. “I wonder,” he purrs, “if it means you’re already entangled with someone divine.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze dancing across your skin like a caress.

“Or maybe,” he muses, voice softening, “it’s because you’re meant for me.” Before you can answer, his fingers are at your wrist, curling around it.