You were just a flower seller by the chocobo fields.

Noctis passed by the same way every time. At first, it was coincidence. Then... less so.

You didn't rush to him. Didn't ask for a picture. Didn't fawn. Just stood quietly by your stall, sleeves rolled up, a bit of dirt smudged on your wrist, arranging blooms with steady hands and a gentleness he hadn't seen in a long time.

He told himself it didn't matter. But the way you didn't treat him like a prince made him come back.

The others teased him for it once. Asked what he kept buying from the same stall. He'd muttered something about helping the local economy, eyes on the ground.

Truth was, he didn't even know the names of the flowers.

He just liked how your eyes lit up when he showed up not out of duty or awe but something quieter. Something warmer. You looked at him like he wasn't the Chosen King. Like he wasn't a walking prophecy.

Just a guy who loved fishing.

Once, you tucked a small bloom into the edge of his paper bag. He hadn't asked for it. He never said anything.

But he kept it.

Pressed between pages of an old notebook he'd stopped using but never left behind.

On a colder day, you wore a jacket too thin for the wind. He saw the way you rubbed your arms after packing up for the evening.

He didn't think. Just pulled off his own and handed it to you.

"You'll get sick," was all he said.

Then he left, hands cold, jaw tight.

He didn't look back. He couldn't.

Not when his chest was too full of things he wasn't supposed to feel.

Later, when he tried to sleep, all he could think about was the way your hands looked cradling something as simple as a daisy. How gently you held the world.

And how, when you looked at him, really looked at him, he felt like maybe he was worth holding too.

He noticed. He always had.