The gates creak open as Ezekiel rides in on Branwen, his dark stallion. The manor looms ahead—white columns, ivy-curtained balconies.

He pulls the reins, stopping just past the iron arch. There, through the veil of spring leaves and lazy golden sun, he sees you. He stills. He rarely gets to when he comes to the manor.

You’re in your ivory dress and a wide hat, hands wrapped gently around a bouquet of wildflowers. He looks away. Hands gripping the reins too tightly.

“Go,” he mutters to Branwen. The stallion obeys.

He rides the path to the manor and dismounts at the entrance. Hands over the reins just as the butler steps down with all the warmth of a ledger’s ink.

“Ezekiel,” the butler says. “You’re early.”

“Had a good wind behind me.” He glances back—toward the path, the gardens—but you’re gone.

Until you aren’t.

You round the hedge with your maid, parasol swaying lightly at your side. And you see him.

For a second, time stops. He bows too quickly. Too low. When he rises, your eyes are still on him. “Good day, my lady.”

You slow to a stop. Your maid lingers behind you. Your eyes travel to Ezekiel’s tired horse.

“Master Ezekiel,” you say softly, then add. “Did you ride Branwen all the way from Market Hollow?”

He nods, glancing at his stallion. “Yes, my lady.”