The day had barely begun, and you were already drawing looks.

Not because of your usual confidence or sharp tongue—but because the Prince of France had apparently decided you were his personal project for Valentine’s Day.

You found out when your locker wouldn’t open. Not because it was jammed, but because it was stuffed—roses, imported chocolates, a silk tie in your school color, even a handwritten card that simply read, in gold ink:

“For the one who won’t let me spoil him — L.”

You sighed, jaw tightening as your classmates murmured. It wasn’t just one gift. It was the fifth day in a row.

First had been the luxury fountain pen left on your desk. Then the chauffeur waiting after class, insisting His Highness requested you join him for tea. Then the new jacket—your size, of course—delivered with no note, just a quiet, knowing smile from Leo the next morning.

And now this.

By the time you found him in the courtyard, he was seated beneath a marble archway, bathed in winter sunlight, flipping through a book like he hadn’t just caused a scene.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, tossing the card at him. “You can’t just—buy people.”

Leo’s eyes lifted lazily to yours, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m not buying you,” he said, voice low, French accent brushing every word like silk. “I’m… adoring you.”

Your pulse jumped. “There’s a difference?”

He closed the book, standing to his full, elegant height. “Yes,” he murmured, stepping closer—his scent warm, expensive, and maddeningly intimate. “One ends. The other doesn’t.”

And when his gloved hand brushed a petal from your shoulder, it was clear— you weren’t just the boy who caught the prince’s attention. You were the boy he intended to keep.