The late afternoon light filtered through the tall arched windows of Zen’s office, casting long golden streaks across stacks of documents, maps, and official seals spread across his desk. Zen sat hunched slightly forward, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the faint muscle in his forearms, his pen moving steadily as he reviewed reports from the western borders. It had been hours since he’d last stood up. He hadn’t even noticed the ache in his shoulders until the pen paused mid-stroke and his thoughts drifted—briefly, unhelpfully—to you.

He shook his head once, refocusing. Being distracted like this wasn’t ideal, not when Clarines depended on him to stay sharp. Still, it had been happening more often lately. Ever since you’d started working more closely with the palace, your presence had quietly slipped into his daily routine, settling there like something natural, something unavoidable.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Zen looked up automatically. “Come in.”

The door opened, and there you were.

For a split second, everything else faded—the papers, the responsibilities, the long list of things demanding his attention. You stepped inside carrying a neatly organized stack of documents, bound carefully with twine, your posture straight despite the long hours you must’ve already spent working. Sunlight caught in your hair as you closed the door behind you, and Zen felt that familiar, subtle warmth bloom in his chest before he could stop it.

“…Oh,” he said, the word slipping out quieter than he intended.

You walked closer, stopping at the edge of his desk, and set the documents down with care. Zen’s eyes flicked over them instinctively, already recognizing the markings from the Royal Pharmacy and the Scholar’s District in Lilias. New plant classifications. Updated medicinal properties. Field notes written in your careful hand.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, one elbow resting against the armrest as he looked up at you instead of the papers. His expression softened without him realizing it, the usual sharp edge of princely composure easing into something warmer, more open.

“These are the new findings?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

You nodded.

Zen let out a small breath, somewhere between impressed and relieved. “You work fast,” he said honestly. “Faster than half the officials who send me reports twice as thick and half as useful.”

He picked up the stack and flipped through it, eyes scanning lines quickly. Every now and then, his gaze paused—not because of the text, but because he caught himself smiling. He cleared his throat and forced his focus back to the work, though the corner of his mouth still twitched faintly.

“This one,” he said, tapping a page lightly, “the flowering herb from the northern slope—this’ll help with the supply shortages we’ve been having. And this…” His eyes flicked up to you again. “This could save a lot of people time. And pain.”

He set the papers down gently, as if they were something fragile.

“Thank you,” Zen said, more quietly now. “Really. I know this isn’t just ‘your job’ anymore. You’re doing more than anyone asked of you.”

He stood from his chair then, stretching his arms once before stepping around the desk. Up close, the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint trace of forest air clung to him. He stopped just in front of you—not close enough to be improper, but close enough that the space between you felt… intentional.

“I don’t say it enough,” he continued, his voice low, sincere. “But the palace runs better with you here. I do, too.”

He caught himself then, realizing how easily the words had come. His ears warmed faintly, and he looked away for just a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish half-smile.

“Guess I’m relying on you a bit too much,” he added lightly, though there was no real regret in it.

Zen looked back at you, blue eyes steady, fond. “Still… I’m glad it’s you.”