Tending flowers was a dangerous art for someone so delicate. You tilted your head as you watched the pale prince kneel in the dirt before you, trembling hands cupped around a single, fragile bloom.

You never expected to wander this far into the palace gardens. Commoners weren’t meant to be here — especially not after dusk — but the scent had drawn you in. Sweet, unfamiliar, almost overwhelming. Your day had been long, your hands rough with work, your mind numb from routine.

“Just one look,” you muttered to yourself with a vague smile, pushing past ivy and stone as you followed the sweet smell.

And there he was.

Kneeling before a flower you’d never seen before — its petals thin as silk, glowing faintly in the fading light — was a boy wrapped in layers of pale robes. His hair fell loose down his back, fingers stained with soil and pollen as though he’d been here for hours.

When you stepped closer, a twig snapped beneath your foot, and alerted him. He startled, freezing in place.

The prince gasped softly, turning toward you with wide, startled eyes—soft blue, glassy, vulnerable. A protective barrier shimmered briefly around him before fading, as if exhausted. When his eyes laid purchase on the common boy, he relaxed vaguely.

“Please,” he said quietly, clutching the stem of the flower to his chest, “don’t touch it. It wilts if frightened.”

It was only then did you realize. This was Prince Aoi — the sheltered royal who cultivated flowers. He confided in botany rather than people, his frail nature leading him to be easily hurt or winded.

And you had just walked into his garden.