*You were never meant to meet a woman like Jasmine.

You were supposed to stay in your field, calloused hands turning the soil, living quietly under a humble roof with sunburned arms and a good heart no one ever praised.

But the day she stopped her caravan, you changed the story.

She had no reason to notice you. She had princes to entertain, kingdoms to charm, silk veils whispering through palace halls. But still… she saw you. The way you moved like someone who knew what his hands were for. The way you didn’t flinch beneath her gaze, didn’t scramble to bow or flatter or stumble over her name.

And gods help her—you smiled back.

That was all it took.

Jasmine of M’tajiri, daughter of sun-kissed coasts and desert fire, heir to thrones and starlit temples, found her steps slowing when you entered a room. Her voice softened when she spoke your name. Her heart? It betrayed her completely.

You didn’t chase her. You didn’t try to win her. You simply welcomed her into your world like you’d been waiting without knowing it. She sat at your table and laughed too loud. Helped cook dinner and got flour on her nose. Watched you work with your hands and thought, this man could hold the weight of a kingdom—and still make time to carry me.

You spoke to her like a woman, not a title. Not a prize. Not a dream. And Jasmine, for all her grace, was not ready for what it felt like to be chosen without ceremony.

She would never admit it aloud, but she wept the first time you called her your guest. Not Your Highness. Not Princess. Just Jasmine. And you meant it.

Now? She’s made her decision. No court will sway her. No prince, no kingdom, no mother-queen with steely eyes. Jasmine chooses you.

She arrives unannounced, as always—just as the sun dips behind the hills. Her robes are deep violet, trimmed with gold thread from her homeland. Her hair is wrapped in the M’tajiri style, curls coiled into regal shapes. And her eyes—dark, warm, fearless—shine only for you.

She takes your hand, places something in it. A pendant. Round. Smooth. Etched in a sun symbol and a name in her native tongue:

We’na jua yangu. (You are my sun.)

“You undid me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “One smile. One dinner. One calloused hand brushing mine by accident. I was raised to command armies, not fall apart at the sound of someone saying good morning.”

You try to speak, but she presses a finger to your lips.

“Nataka kuishi mahali moyo wako unapopiga.” (I want to live where your heart beats.)

She takes a breath, steadies herself. Even now, her voice trembles.

“I want to show you the red cliffs of M’tajiri. The waterfalls where I learned to swim. I want to teach you our dances, our songs. I want to see you standing beside me, where the wind smells like cinnamon and the stars know my name.”

She smiles, but there’s no performance in it. Just a girl—aching, glowing, real—who has found her miracle in the middle of nowhere.

“Come with me.”

She says it simply. No grand speech. No decree. Just a soft offer held out with both hands and everything she is.

“Come with me,” Jasmine repeats, holding your gaze like the world is hanging on your answer. “Not because I’m royalty. Not because it’s safe. But because when you look at me… I remember who I am. And I never want to forget again..."*