The Stars Follow You | OP81 x Reader
Pairings: Noble!Oscar x Noble!Reader, Crown!prince!Lando x reader (slight for plot purposes), Oscar x Noble!Lily (slight for plot purposes)
Notes: this one’s a long one guys :) I had fun making this one but I did have to sit down for several sessions to make it so there might be inconsistencies. I played around a bit with the concept but I’m happy with how it came out. Please sit back and enjoy!!
Aristocracy AU! Masterlist
The palace gardens were the only place that ever felt honest.
Inside the banquet hall, everything shimmered with gold and noise. Adults towered over you in layers of silk and velvet, their voices rising and falling in rehearsed politeness. Every time you tried to step away, someone caught your arm to tell you how charming you looked or how proud your parents must be. You were six, and already you understood that adults liked to talk more than they liked to listen.
You slipped out the terrace doors the moment no one was watching.
The air outside was warm and smelled of roses and fresh grass. Fireflies drifted lazily above the flowerbeds. The sky glowed with the soft colors of early evening. You felt your shoulders relax for the first time all night.
A boy sat alone on the edge of the fountain, his feet not quite touching the ground. His brown hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away with a small, nervous movement. His clothes were fine but worn with the stiffness of someone who was not used to wearing them. He looked like he was trying to make himself smaller, as if the world would leave him alone if he took up less space.
You walked toward him without hesitation.
He noticed you halfway across the courtyard. His eyes widened, warm brown and full of surprise. “Oh. I did not think anyone else would come out here.”
“I wanted to breathe,” you said simply.
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Me too.”
You climbed onto the fountain beside him. The stone was cool beneath your hands. “I am (Y/N) of House (L/N).”
He blinked, startled by your confidence. “I am Oscar of House Piastri.”
You studied him for a moment. He looked like someone who had been alone for a long time, even though he was only a child. “Do you mind having company?” you asked.
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. We can sit together.”
The two of you sat in silence, listening to the gentle splash of water. The sky above deepened into shades of lavender and gold. Fireflies drifted closer, their lights flickering softly.
You did not know it then, but this was the moment your lives quietly intertwined.
Three years later, the gardens had become your shared refuge. You knew every path, every hidden corner, every tree that offered shade on warm afternoons. You knew where Oscar liked to sit when he wanted quiet, and he knew where you liked to hide when you wanted to avoid lessons.
You found him beneath the old oak tree, legs crossed, a book open in his lap. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns across his face. He looked peaceful, completely absorbed in the page.
He looked up when he heard your footsteps. His expression softened instantly. “You always find me.”
“You are always here,” you replied.
Oscar closed the book and set it aside. “My tutors say I should spend more time with other children.”
He shook his head. “They are loud. And they stare.”
You sat beside him. The grass was warm beneath your palms. “I do not stare.”
“You do,” he said quietly, “but it feels different.”
Your cheeks warmed, though you did not understand why.
Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. “I made something for you.”
You unwrapped it carefully.
Inside was a pressed flower, preserved between two thin pieces of glass and framed with a delicate silver border. A forget me not, pale blue and perfectly intact.
Your breath caught. “Oscar. This is beautiful.”
He looked down at his hands. “Well… I pressed the flower, someone else encased it. It reminded me of you. Bright. Hard to ignore.”
You smiled, touched in a way you could not explain. “I will keep it forever.”
Oscar looked at you then, really looked, and something unspoken passed between you. Something fragile and new.
Neither of you had words for it yet.
By fourteen, you and Oscar were no longer children, but not quite adults. You were caught in the delicate space between, where everything felt sharper and more complicated.
You found him in the training courtyard, practicing sword forms with a level of focus that made the world fade around him. His movements were precise and controlled, each step measured, each swing deliberate. He had grown taller, his features more defined, though he still carried the same quiet gentleness in his eyes.
When he noticed you, he froze mid step. “Oh. I did not expect you.”
“You always say that,” you teased.
He flushed. “I mean that I did not expect you here. During training.”
Oscar’s grip tightened on the sword. “Why”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Because I like being around you.”
Oscar looked away, but not before you saw the faint pink rising in his cheeks.
He sheathed the sword and walked toward you. His steps were slow, almost hesitant. “You should not say things like that.”
“Because,” he said softly, “I do not know what to do when you do.”
The courtyard felt suddenly smaller. The air felt warmer. You were aware of the space between you in a way you had never been before.
You did not understand the feeling yet, but you knew it mattered. Oscar knew it too. He just did not know what to do with it.
You turned sixteen on a day that felt too beautiful to be real. The sky was a soft, endless blue, the kind that made the palace gardens glow with color. Sunlight warmed the stone paths and caught on the petals of blooming roses. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and summer wind. Everything felt alive, as if the world itself had been waiting for this moment.
You found Oscar exactly where you expected him to be.
He was sitting beneath the old oak tree, the same one that had sheltered the two of you since childhood. Its branches stretched wide above him, casting dappled shadows across the grass. He sat with his back against the trunk, a book open in his lap, though he was not reading. His eyes were distant, thoughtful, as if he were trying to steady himself before the day carried him somewhere unfamiliar.
When he heard your footsteps, he looked up.
The change in his expression was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes softened. The faint tension in his jaw eased. It was the look he reserved only for you, the one that made something warm settle quietly in your chest.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
You sat beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. The grass was warm beneath your palms, and the breeze carried the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Oscar had grown taller in the past year, his features sharper, though he still carried the same gentle awkwardness in the way he held himself. His brown hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away with a small, familiar movement.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet felt comfortable, like a shared breath.
Then Oscar reached into his coat.
“I have something for you,” he said, his voice softer than before.
You watched as he pulled out a small velvet pouch. He held it carefully, almost reverently, as if it contained something fragile. When he placed it in your hands, his fingers brushed yours, and the touch lingered in a way that made your heart flutter.
You opened the pouch slowly.
Inside was a silver bracelet with a single star charm. The charm was small and delicate, polished until it gleamed in the sunlight. It was simple, elegant, and undeniably thoughtful.
“Oscar,” you whispered. “This is beautiful.”
He looked down, as if afraid to meet your eyes. “It reminded me of you. More than what I gifted you years ago.”
You turned the bracelet gently between your fingers. “Why a star?”
Oscar hesitated, then lifted his gaze. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something he had never shown you so openly before.
“You always know where you are going,” he said. “Even when everything else feels uncertain. You make things brighter without trying. When I am with you, it feels like I can see more clearly. Like the world makes more sense.”
He continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are… steady. Constant. Like the stars.”
The warmth that bloomed in your chest was soft and overwhelming. You had known Oscar your entire life, but this felt different. This felt like stepping into a new room in a house you thought you already knew.
You fastened the bracelet around your wrist. The charm rested lightly against your skin, cool at first, then warming with your body heat.
“I love it,” you said. “Thank you.”
Oscar exhaled, a quiet breath of relief. “I am glad.”
You wanted to say more. You wanted to ask him what he meant, what he felt, what had changed between you. But before you could speak, footsteps approached across the grass.
A palace attendant bowed politely. “Lady (Y/N), your mother requests your presence. You must get dressed before the masquerade begins.”
You sighed softly. “Of course.”
Oscar stood as you did, though he kept a small distance, as if unsure whether he was allowed to follow. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, turning it warm and gold. He looked older in that moment, and yet still unmistakably the boy you had found at the fountain years ago.
You turned to him. “Will you attend tonight? My mother might be good friends with Her Majesty, but I wouldn’t like to be alone.”
He hesitated. “If you want me to be there.”
The words slipped out naturally, without thought, but the effect on him was immediate. His breath stilled. His eyes widened just slightly. A faint flush rose along his cheekbones. You felt something shift between you, something quiet and delicate, like the first note of a song that had been waiting to be played.
You stepped back, giving him one last smile before following the attendant toward the palace. The silver star charm brushed against your wrist with every movement, a soft reminder of the boy beneath the oak tree.
He did not call after you. He did not move. He simply stood there beneath the branches, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and fear.
The palace felt different on the evening of the masquerade. The corridors were filled with soft candlelight, and the air carried the faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers. Servants moved quietly through the halls, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets, their voices hushed with the reverence that always accompanied royal celebrations. You stood in your chambers— supposedly for guests, but seeing as your mother frequently stays at the palace to keep the Queen some friendly company, it has become somewhat of a semi-yours room—as your attendants fastened the last clasp of your gown, their hands gentle and practiced.
The fabric shimmered with every breath you took. It was a deep, rich blue that reminded you of the sky just after sunset, when the first stars began to appear. The sleeves draped softly along your arms, and the skirt flowed like water when you moved. Your mask rested on the vanity, silver and delicate, shaped with curling patterns that caught the candlelight in soft glimmers.
You touched the bracelet on your wrist.
The star charm rested against your skin, warm now from your body heat. Oscar had chosen it for you. Oscar had given it to you with a look that lingered in your mind long after you left him beneath the oak tree. You traced the charm with your thumb, feeling the smooth metal, and wondered if he knew how much it meant to you.
Your mother entered the room briefly to inspect your appearance. She smiled approvingly, though her eyes were already drifting toward the door, her mind on the guests and the expectations of the evening. She kissed your cheek, wished you a pleasant night, and left as quickly as she had come.
When the attendants stepped back and the room finally fell quiet, you took a slow breath and looked at yourself in the mirror. The girl staring back at you looked older than you felt. She looked composed, elegant, ready for the night ahead. But beneath the mask and the gown, you still felt like the girl who had found a quiet boy at a fountain years ago and decided he would never be alone again.
You slipped the mask over your face, adjusted the ribbons, and stepped into the corridor.
The ballroom glowed with candlelight. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, scattering warm light across the polished marble floor. Musicians played a soft, lilting melody that drifted through the air like silk. Guests in elaborate masks filled the room, their laughter rising and falling in gentle waves. The atmosphere felt dreamlike, suspended between reality and something more magical.
You paused at the top of the staircase, letting your eyes adjust to the brightness. The room stretched out before you in a swirl of color and movement. You could feel the weight of attention as guests turned to look at you, their expressions hidden behind masks but their interest unmistakable. You descended the steps slowly, the fabric of your gown whispering against the marble.
But you were not looking for them.
You were looking for him.
You found Oscar near the edge of the room, half hidden behind a marble pillar. His mask was simple and dark, elegant in its restraint. He wore formal attire that suited him more than he seemed to realize, the deep colors complementing the warm tones of his hair and eyes. He stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, observing the room with quiet uncertainty.
When he saw you, he froze.
His posture straightened, and for a moment he looked as if he had forgotten how to breathe. His eyes widened behind the mask, and the faintest flush rose along his cheekbones. You felt something warm unfurl in your chest at the sight of him, something soft and familiar and new all at once.
You walked toward him, weaving through the crowd with practiced grace. When you reached him, he let out a breath he had been holding.
“You look…” He paused, searching for the right words. “You look extraordinary.”
You smiled. “You always say things like that as if you are surprised.”
“I am,” he admitted quietly. “Every time.”
The music shifted into a gentle waltz. Couples moved toward the center of the room, their steps slow and graceful. You turned to Oscar, your voice soft.
He blinked, startled. “Me?”
He hesitated only for a moment before nodding. You took his hand, and he followed you onto the dance floor. His touch was warm, careful, almost reverent. He placed one hand at your waist, the other holding yours, and you began to move together in slow, measured steps.
The world around you blurred into soft colors and candlelight. The music wrapped around you like a warm breeze. Oscar’s movements were steady, though you could feel the faint tension in his shoulders, the quiet nervousness he tried so hard to hide. His eyes never left yours, even through the mask.
You felt the shift again. The same one you had felt beneath the oak tree. The same one that had lingered in the air between you for years.
You did not speak. You did not need to. The silence between you felt full, not empty, as if every unspoken thought had found a place to rest.
When the music softened, Oscar’s hand tightened slightly around yours, as if he did not want the moment to end. You felt the same ache, quiet and unexpected.
But the night was not finished with you.
A herald stepped forward, his voice carrying across the ballroom. “Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Lando Norris.”
The crowd parted and to your dismay, Oscar’s hand slipped from yours.
The ballroom shifted the moment the herald announced the prince. The music softened, and the crowd parted with practiced elegance, creating a clear path from the grand doors to the center of the room. Candlelight shimmered across polished marble, catching on the gold embroidery of gowns and the gleam of polished boots. The air felt charged, as if the night itself had paused to watch.
Prince Lando Norris entered with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. His mask was gold, shaped with sweeping lines that resembled wings, and it caught the light with every step he took. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet undeniably regal. He moved as if the room belonged to him, and perhaps it did.
You stood beside Oscar, the warmth of his touch lingered even after he let go, and you felt the absence of it more sharply than you expected. Oscar’s posture had changed the moment the prince appeared. His shoulders stiffened, and his gaze lowered slightly, as if he hoped to blend into the shadows behind the marble pillar.
Lando’s eyes swept the room with polite interest, but when they reached you, something in his expression shifted. His steps slowed. His attention sharpened. He moved toward you with the kind of smooth, effortless grace that drew the eyes of everyone nearby.
He stopped before you and offered a small bow. “Lady (Y/N),” he said, his voice warm and confident. “I have heard your name more than once. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
You returned the bow with practiced courtesy. “Your Highness. The pleasure is mine.”
Although you’ve spent a great deal of time as a guest in the palace, you have never formally met the prince. The crown prince had always existed in a separate world for you, ridden with his duties and events, while you spent your time with the boy under the oak tree. The prince had no need to entertain honoured and frequent guests of Her Majesty, there was simply no reason.
Oscar stood slightly behind you, his hands clasped in front of him. His mask hid most of his expression, but you could see the tension in the way he held himself, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze flicked between you and the prince as if he were trying to understand something he had never had to face before.
Lando turned to him with polite curiosity. “And you are?”
“Oscar of House Piastri,” he said quietly.
The prince nodded in acknowledgment, then returned his attention to you. “May I ask for a dance?”
The question hung in the air, gentle but unmistakably direct. The music shifted into a new melody, soft and inviting. Couples moved toward the center of the room, their steps slow and graceful. The candlelight flickered across the prince’s mask, turning the gold into warm, glowing light.
You felt Oscar’s gaze on you.
It was not pleading. It was not possessive. It was something quieter, something uncertain, something that made your heart tighten. He looked as if he were bracing himself for an answer he did not want to hear but would accept without protest.
You had been raised to be polite. To honor invitations. To respect the crown. But you had also grown up beside Oscar, sharing secrets beneath the oak tree, laughing in the gardens, learning the shape of his quiet presence long before you understood what it meant.
You placed your hand in the prince’s.
Oscar’s breath caught so softly you almost did not hear it.
Lando led you onto the dance floor with smooth, practiced steps. His hand settled at your waist with confident ease, and he guided you into the rhythm of the music as if he had been waiting for this moment. His smile was warm, charming, the kind that made people lean closer without realizing it.
“You dance beautifully,” he said.
You returned a polite smile. “You are very kind.”
But your eyes drifted past his shoulder.
Oscar stood at the edge of the room, half hidden behind the pillar. His mask shadowed his expression, but you could see the tension in his posture. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers twisting slightly. He looked like he wanted to disappear and stay at the same time.
Lando followed your gaze. “Your friend seems protective.”
“He is not protective,” you said. “He is simply… Oscar.”
The prince’s smile deepened, though there was something thoughtful behind it. “I see.”
He guided you through a turn, and the room blurred into soft colors and candlelight. The music wrapped around you like a warm breeze. Lando was an excellent dancer, confident and steady, but your mind kept drifting back to the boy standing alone at the edge of the ballroom.
The boy who had given you a star. The boy who had looked at you beneath the oak tree as if the world had shifted beneath his feet. The boy whose absence you felt even while dancing with a prince.
The song ended with a gentle flourish. Lando bowed, his smile warm. “Thank you, Lady (Y/N). You are even more enchanting than I was told.”
You returned the bow, though your thoughts were elsewhere. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
He lifted your hand and brushed a soft kiss across your knuckles. The gesture was elegant, perfectly princely, and it drew a few murmurs from nearby guests.
But your heart did not flutter. It tightened.
You stepped back, your gaze drifting instinctively toward the pillar where Oscar had been standing.
A quiet ache settled in your chest, unexpected and unwelcome. You excused yourself from the prince with a polite smile and moved toward the edge of the room, your steps quickening as you slipped through the crowd.
The ballroom felt too bright now, too loud, too full of faces that were not the one you were looking for. You stepped into the corridor beyond the doors, the cool air brushing against your skin like a sigh of relief.
You did not know where Oscar had gone, but you knew you would find him, you always did.
The corridor outside the ballroom felt like a different world. The music softened behind the closed doors, fading into a distant hum that barely reached the quiet hallway. The air was cooler here, touched by the night breeze that slipped in through the open arches. Moonlight spilled across the stone floor in pale ribbons, and the shadows stretched long and gentle along the walls.
You walked slowly at first, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. The soft rustle of your gown echoed faintly with each step. You did not know exactly where Oscar had gone, but you knew him well enough to understand the places he sought when the world felt too loud. He had always gravitated toward quiet corners, tucked‑away alcoves, and the edges of rooms where he could observe without being observed.
You followed the familiar pull of memory.
The palace had many balconies, but only one overlooked the gardens in a way that felt private, almost hidden. It was tucked behind a carved stone pillar, half concealed from the main corridor. You had discovered it together when you were children, sneaking away from the politics of the court to watch the gardeners tend to the roses below. It had become your place long before either of you understood why.
Oscar stood with his hands resting on the railing, his posture tense in a way that made your chest tighten. His mask was still on, though he had pushed it up slightly so he could breathe the night air. The moonlight caught the edges of his hair, turning it soft and gold. He looked out over the gardens with an expression you could not see fully, but you felt the weight of it all the same.
He did not hear you at first.
You stepped closer, letting your presence announce itself gently. The soft sound of your gown brushing the stone made him turn. His eyes widened behind the mask, and for a moment he looked startled, as if he had not expected you to follow him.
“(Y/N),” he said quietly. “I thought you would still be inside.”
“I was,” you replied. “Until I realized you were not.”
Oscar lowered his gaze, his fingers curling slightly against the railing. “I did not mean to leave so suddenly. I just needed a moment.”
You moved to stand beside him, your hands resting lightly on the cool stone. The night air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of roses from the gardens below. The stars above shimmered in the clear sky, scattered like silver dust across the darkness.
“You could have told me,” you said gently.
Oscar hesitated. “You were dancing with the prince.”
There was no bitterness in his voice. No accusation. Just a quiet truth that made your heart ache.
You turned your head to study him. The moonlight softened the lines of his face, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone and the faint tension in his jaw. He looked older tonight, not because of the mask or the formal clothes, but because of the emotion he was trying so hard to hide.
“I did not want to dance with him,” you said.
Oscar’s breath caught, so faintly you almost missed it. “You did not seem unhappy.”
“I was being polite,” you replied. “There is a difference.”
He looked down at his hands again, as if the truth unsettled him. “He is the prince.”
He blinked, confused. “What does that mean”
“It means,” you said softly, “that I know you. I trust you. I look for you in every room without even thinking about it.”
Oscar’s fingers tightened against the railing. “You should not say things like that.”
“Because I do not know what to do with it,” he whispered.
You felt something warm and fragile settle between you. The night seemed to hold its breath. The stars above shimmered like they were listening.
You reached out and touched his hand, your fingers brushing his. His breath hitched. He did not pull away.
“Oscar,” you said, your voice quiet, “you left because you were upset.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the truth stung. “I did not want to be.”
He nodded, the movement small and reluctant. “I did not like seeing him look at you like that.”
Your heart fluttered. “Like what?”
“Like you were something he wanted,” Oscar said quietly. “Like he had the right to reach for you.”
You felt warmth rise in your chest, slow and steady. “And you think you do and he doesn’t?”
Oscar opened his eyes. The emotion in them was raw, unguarded, and it made your breath catch. “I do not know what I am allowed to feel.”
You stepped closer, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. The silver star charm on your bracelet glinted in the moonlight, catching his attention. His gaze lingered on it, softening.
“You gave me this,” you said. “You chose it for me.”
He nodded. “I wanted you to have something that reminded you of… of what you are to me.”
“And what am I to you, Oscar?”
Oscar swallowed. His voice was barely audible. “You are the person I always find. Even when I am not looking.”
The stars above seemed to shimmer brighter, as if they were leaning closer.
You touched the charm gently. “Oscar… you likened me to the stars. Then technically, the stars follow you.”
He blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You think you are the one who follows me,” you said softly. “But you are wrong. I always end up where you are. I always have. Like a sailor in the night, that of whom follows the stars, I follow you. But if I am the stars, I follow the trail left in the sea and find my way to you.”
Oscar stared at you, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, and for a moment the world felt impossibly still. You simply stood together beneath the stars, the night wrapping around you like a quiet promise.
The walk back toward the ballroom felt different from the one that had brought you out to the balcony. The corridor was still quiet, still bathed in soft moonlight, but the air between you and Oscar had changed. It felt warmer now, charged with something delicate and unspoken. You walked side by side, your steps slow and unhurried, as if neither of you wanted to break the fragile calm that had settled around you.
Oscar kept his gaze forward, but you could see the faint tension in his posture, the way his fingers brushed lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as if he were trying to steady himself. The mask hid most of his expression, yet you could sense the swirl of emotions beneath it. He had always been easy for you to read, even when he tried to hide.
You reached the archway that opened back into the ballroom. The music drifted out in soft waves, a gentle waltz that wrapped around the room like a warm breeze. Candlelight flickered across the marble floor, catching on the gold embroidery of gowns and the polished surfaces of masks. The atmosphere felt bright and lively, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of the balcony.
Oscar paused just before stepping inside.
He looked at you, really looked, as if he were trying to memorize the moment before the world reclaimed you both. His eyes were soft behind the mask, filled with something that made your breath catch. You felt the weight of his gaze settle over you like a warm blanket, comforting and unsettling all at once.
“Are you ready to go back in?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, though your heart felt strangely heavy. “Are you?”
He hesitated. “I will be.”
You wanted to reach for his hand again, to offer the same quiet reassurance he had given you so many times before, but the moment slipped away as a pair of guests passed by, their laughter echoing softly through the corridor. Oscar stepped back slightly, giving you space, though the distance felt unnecessary and a little painful.
You entered the ballroom together.
The shift was immediate. Conversations paused for a heartbeat as people noticed your return, especially after leaving right after you concluded your dance with the Crown Prince. The soft glow of candlelight caught the silver of your mask and the star charm on your bracelet, drawing subtle attention. Oscar walked beside you, his posture composed but slightly guarded, as if he were bracing himself for something he could not name.
You felt eyes on you, curious, assessing, intrigued, but you were used to that. What you were not used to was the way Oscar seemed to shrink slightly under the weight of those same glances. Standing beside you in the center of the ballroom made him feel exposed, and you could sense it in the way his shoulders tightened.
Before you could say anything, a familiar voice approached.
Prince Lando stepped toward you with the same effortless confidence he had displayed earlier. His mask gleamed gold in the candlelight, and his smile was warm, charming, and unmistakably directed at you. He carried himself with the ease of someone who had never once doubted his place in any room.
“I was beginning to wonder where you had gone,” he said.
You offered a polite smile. “I needed some air.”
Lando’s gaze flicked briefly to Oscar, then back to you. “I hope the night has not overwhelmed you. These events can be… intense.”
Oscar stood slightly behind you, his posture straight but tense. He did not speak, but you could feel the quiet discomfort radiating from him. Lando noticed it too, not with malice, but with curiosity. His eyes lingered on Oscar for a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to understand the dynamic between you.
“I was hoping,” Lando continued, “that I might have another dance with you later in the evening.”
The request was polite, but there was an unmistakable confidence beneath it, a certainty that most people rarely challenged. You felt Oscar shift beside you, a subtle movement that spoke louder than words. His breath caught, barely audible, but you heard it.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. His expression was hidden behind the mask, but his posture told you everything. He looked as if he were trying to remain composed, trying to be respectful, trying not to feel what he was feeling.
You realized then that the night had changed something between you, something neither of you had expected, something neither of you knew how to navigate yet.
You looked back at the prince. “Perhaps later,” you said gently. “I am not ready for another dance just yet.”
Lando nodded, though you could see the faint surprise in his eyes. “Of course. I will look forward to it.”
He bowed and stepped away, disappearing into the crowd with the same effortless grace he had arrived with. The moment he was gone, the tension in Oscar’s posture eased, though only slightly. He let out a quiet breath, one he had been holding since the prince approached.
You turned to him fully. “Are you all right?”
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “I am trying to be.”
You felt something warm settle in your chest. “You do not have to try so hard with me.”
His gaze softened. “I know.”
The music shifted into a new melody, gentle and inviting. Couples moved toward the center of the room once more, their steps slow and graceful. Oscar looked at the dance floor, then back at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
“Do you want to dance again?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You smiled. “Only if you do.”
Oscar hesitated for a heartbeat, then offered his hand. “I do.”
You placed your hand in his, and the warmth of his touch settled over you like a quiet promise. He led you onto the dance floor, his movements careful and steady, and the world around you softened into candlelight and music.
The star charm on your bracelet brushed against your wrist with every step, a gentle reminder of the boy who had given it to you.
And as you moved together beneath the chandeliers, you felt it again, that subtle, unmistakable shift. The stars were following his lead.
The music rose again, gentle and warm, filling the ballroom with a soft glow that seemed to settle over everything. Candlelight shimmered across the marble floor, catching on the edges of masks and the folds of gowns. The air felt lighter now, touched by the faint sweetness of the flowers arranged along the walls. You stepped onto the dance floor with Oscar, and the world around you softened into something quieter, something that felt almost private despite the crowd.
Oscar held your hand with a careful steadiness, as if he were afraid of holding too tightly but equally afraid of letting go. His other hand rested at your waist, warm through the fabric of your gown. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, a sign of nerves he would never admit aloud. He guided you into the rhythm of the music, his movements gentle and deliberate, as if he were trying to memorize the way you felt in his arms.
You moved together slowly, your steps matching without effort. The room blurred into soft colors and flickering candlelight. You could hear the faint rustle of your gown, the quiet brush of his sleeve against your arm, the steady cadence of his breath. Everything else faded into the background.
Oscar looked at you through the mask, and even though half his face was hidden, you could see the emotion in his eyes. It was subtle, almost hesitant, but unmistakably there. He watched you as if he were seeing you for the first time, and yet also as if he had known you forever. The combination made your chest feel warm and strangely full.
“You dance well,” you said softly, your voice barely above the music.
He shook his head slightly. “I only dance well with you.”
The words were simple, but they settled over you with a quiet weight. You felt your breath catch, not in surprise, but in recognition. Something inside you had been shifting for a long time, slowly and quietly, like a tide rising without notice. Tonight, it felt closer to the surface than ever before.
You let your gaze linger on him, taking in the way the candlelight softened the edges of his mask, the way his hair fell slightly out of place, the way he held you with a mixture of care and uncertainty. You had always known Oscar, but tonight you were beginning to understand him in a new way.
As the dance continued, you became aware of another presence in the room.
Prince Lando stood near the edge of the dance floor, speaking with a small group of nobles. His posture was relaxed, his smile easy, but his eyes drifted toward you more often than chance would allow. He watched you and Oscar with a thoughtful expression, one that held curiosity rather than jealousy. He seemed to be studying the two of you, trying to understand something he had not expected to find.
You felt the subtle shift in his posture, the faint tightening of his hand at your waist. He did not look directly at the prince, but his awareness of Lando’s gaze was unmistakable. The tension was not sharp or dramatic, but quiet and deep, like a ripple beneath still water.
You leaned in slightly, your voice soft enough that only Oscar could hear. “You do not have to worry.”
He hesitated. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“You are thinking too much,” you said gently. “I can feel it.”
Oscar’s breath caught, and he looked down for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “I do not know how to stop.”
You smiled, a small, warm curve of your lips. “Then let me help.”
The music swelled, and you moved closer, your hand sliding a little more firmly into his. Oscar’s eyes widened slightly, the surprise clear even through the mask. His grip steadied, and the tension in his shoulders eased. You felt him relax into the dance, into the moment, into you.
The star charm on your bracelet brushed against your wrist with every step, catching the light in small flashes. Oscar’s gaze flicked to it once, just briefly, and something softened in his expression. You wondered if he realized how often you now touched it without thinking, how often your fingers drifted to it when you thought of him, despite getting the gift just a few hours prior.
The song drew to a gentle close, the final notes lingering in the air like a sigh. Oscar did not release your hand immediately. He held it for a moment longer, as if reluctant to let the moment end. You felt the same reluctance, warm and quiet, settling in your chest.
When he finally stepped back, it was with a softness that made your heart ache.
“You make it very difficult to think clearly,” he said, his voice low.
You laughed softly. “I could say the same.”
Oscar looked at you with an expression that felt like a question he was not yet ready to ask. You felt the answer forming inside you, slow and certain, even if you did not yet have the words.
Before either of you could speak again, Lando approached. His steps were unhurried, his expression polite, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes that had not been there earlier. He stopped a respectful distance away, offering a small bow.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.
Oscar straightened slightly, his posture shifting into something more guarded.
You smiled. “Not at all, Your Highness.”
Lando’s gaze drifted between the two of you, lingering on the star bracelet, then on Oscar’s hand still loosely holding yours. His smile deepened, though it held a hint of something thoughtful.
“I was hoping,” he said, “that I might borrow you for a moment, Lady (Y/N). There is something I would like to discuss.”
Oscar’s fingers tightened around yours, just barely.
Lando waited with an easy patience, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested he was used to being granted attention. The gold of his mask caught the candlelight, turning it into a soft glow that framed his face. He looked every bit the prince he was born to be, confident without arrogance, charming without effort.
Oscar stood beside you, his hand still loosely holding yours. You felt the faint pressure of his fingers, the quiet plea in the way he lingered. He did not speak, but his silence carried more weight than words ever could. You could sense the conflict in him, the desire to stay close, the fear of overstepping, the uncertainty of what he was allowed to feel.
You gently slipped your hand from his, though the separation felt heavier than you expected. Oscar’s fingers curled slightly, as if they missed the warmth immediately. You offered him a small, reassuring glance before turning to Lando.
“I can speak with you,” you said. “Just for a moment.”
Lando nodded, his smile warm. “That is all I ask.”
He led you toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the music and the swirl of dancers. The air felt cooler here, touched by the faint breeze drifting in from the open balcony doors. You could still see Oscar from where you stood, he remained near the edge of the room, his posture straight, his gaze following you with a mixture of worry and something deeper, something he did not yet know how to name.
Lando noticed your glance and followed it briefly before returning his attention to you.
“He cares for you,” the prince said, his tone gentle rather than probing.
You felt warmth rise in your chest. “He is important to me.”
“I can see that,” Lando replied. “It is rare to find someone who looks at another person the way he looks at you.”
You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The prince’s words were not mocking or jealous. They were simply observant, spoken with the clarity of someone who had spent his life reading people.
Lando continued, “I asked to speak with you because I wanted to understand something. When we danced earlier, you were polite, but your mind was elsewhere. I am not offended by that. I am only curious.”
You looked down at your hands, the star charm on your bracelet catching the light as it shifted against your wrist. “Tonight has been… overwhelming.”
“I imagine it has,” Lando said. “But I do not think it is the celebration that overwhelms you.”
His voice was soft, almost kind. You lifted your gaze to meet him, and he held it steadily.
“You care for him,” he said. “More than you realize.”
The words settled over you like a gentle weight. You did not deny them. You could not. The truth had been growing quietly inside you for years, slow and steady like the roots of a tree. Tonight, it had begun to surface.
“I do not know what I feel,” you admitted. “Not fully.”
“That is all right,” Lando said. “Feelings rarely arrive fully formed. They grow. They reveal themselves in moments, not declarations.”
You exhaled slowly, grateful for the prince’s understanding. He was not trying to claim you. He was not trying to compete. He was simply observing, offering clarity where you had only confusion.
Lando glanced toward Oscar again. “He is watching you as if he is afraid to blink.”
Oscar stood exactly where you had left him, his posture still tense, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked as if he were trying to appear composed, but the effort showed in the way his shoulders held a little too tightly, the way his gaze never drifted far from you.
You felt something warm and fragile settle in your chest.
Lando turned back to you. “I will not keep you long. I only wanted to ask one thing.”
“What is that, Your Royal Highness?”
“Would you like another dance later,” he asked, “or would you prefer to spend the rest of the evening with him?”
The question was gentle, not demanding. It held no pressure, only curiosity.
You looked at Oscar again.
The answer formed quietly inside you, soft and certain.
“I think,” you said, “I would prefer to be with him.”
Lando smiled, not disappointed but thoughtful. “Then I hope he realizes how fortunate he is.”
You felt your cheeks warm. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
He bowed his head slightly. “Enjoy your night, Lady (Y/N).”
You stepped away from him, your heart steady and warm, and began to walk back toward Oscar. The music swelled again, filling the ballroom with soft, lilting notes. The candlelight shimmered across the floor, guiding your steps.
Oscar saw you approaching.
His posture straightened, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. His eyes softened behind the mask, filled with a quiet relief he did not try to hide.
You reached him, and the world felt right again.
The stars above the palace were hidden by the ceiling, but you felt them all the same, steady, constant, quietly shifting into place.
The moment you returned to Oscar, the atmosphere around you softened. The ballroom was still bright and full of movement, but the noise felt distant, as if the world had stepped a little further away to give the two of you space. Oscar stood exactly where you had left him, his posture straight but no longer tense, his eyes following your approach with a quiet relief that warmed you from the inside.
He did not ask what the prince had said. He did not demand an explanation. He simply looked at you with the kind of trust that had been growing between you for years, steady and unspoken. You felt the weight of that trust settle gently over your shoulders, comforting and grounding.
“Are you all right?” Oscar asked, his voice soft.
He studied your expression for a moment, as if searching for any sign of discomfort. When he found none, his shoulders relaxed slightly. The faintest smile touched the corner of his mouth, small but sincere.
The music shifted into a new melody, warm and slow, the kind that invited closeness rather than formality. Couples drifted toward the center of the room, their movements gentle and unhurried. The candlelight shimmered across the marble floor, turning the space into a soft swirl of gold and shadow.
Oscar hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward the dance floor before returning to you. “If you are tired, we can stay here,” he said. “You do not have to dance again.”
You felt a quiet warmth bloom in your chest. “I want to dance,” you said. “With you.”
Oscar’s breath caught, subtle but unmistakable. He offered his hand, and you placed yours in it without hesitation. His touch was warm, steady, familiar in a way that felt deeper tonight than it ever had before.
He led you onto the dance floor, guiding you into the rhythm of the music with a gentleness that made your heart ache. His hand settled at your waist, careful but sure, and you rested your free hand lightly on his shoulder. The world around you yet again blurred into soft colors and flickering candlelight.
You moved together slowly, your steps matching without effort. Oscar’s movements were more confident now, though still touched with the quiet sincerity that had always defined him. He held you as if he were afraid to break something delicate, yet unwilling to let go.
The star charm on your bracelet brushed against your wrist with every turn, catching the light in small flashes. Oscar’s gaze drifted to it once, lingering for a moment before returning to your eyes.
“You seem quieter than before,” you said softly.
He shook his head slightly. “I am only trying to understand what tonight means.”
You felt your breath catch. “And what do you think it means”
Oscar hesitated, his gaze searching yours. “I think something is changing,” he said. “I do not know what it is yet, but I can feel it.”
You felt the truth of his words settle inside you, warm and steady. “I feel it too.”
The music carried you through another slow turn. Oscar’s hand tightened slightly at your waist, not possessive, but protective in a way that felt instinctive. You leaned in just a little, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“I thought,” Oscar said quietly, “that when the prince asked you to dance again, you would say yes.”
“I did not want to,” you replied.
He looked at you with a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something that made your heart flutter. “Why not?”
“Because I wanted to be with you,” you said. “I always do.”
Oscar’s steps faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly, guiding you back into the rhythm with a soft exhale. His eyes softened behind the mask, filled with an emotion he had never shown you so openly before.
“I do not know what I did to deserve that,” he said.
“You do not have to do anything,” you replied. “You are enough.”
Oscar looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time, and yet also as if he had known you forever. The music swelled around you, warm and gentle, wrapping the two of you in a moment that felt suspended in time.
Across the room, Lando watched. He stood near the edge of the dance floor, his posture relaxed as he observed the two of you with the quiet understanding of someone who recognized a story unfolding before him, one he was not meant to interrupt.
Oscar did not notice him.
He was focused entirely on you.
The song drew to a slow, lingering close. Oscar did not release your hand immediately. He held it for a moment longer, as if reluctant to let the moment end. You felt the same reluctance, warm and quiet, settling in your chest.
When he finally stepped back, it was with a softness that made your heart ache.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low. “For choosing to be here with me.”
You smiled, your fingers brushing his lightly. “There was never a question.”
The night softened as the masquerade drew toward its end. The music had settled into a gentle rhythm, the kind that wrapped itself around the ballroom like a warm blanket. Candlelight flickered across the marble floor, catching on the edges of masks and the folds of gowns. The air felt lighter now, touched by the warmth of the evening and the quiet closeness that had grown between you and Oscar.
You stood together near the edge of the room, still close enough that your hands brushed when either of you shifted. The warmth of the dance lingered between you, delicate and steady, like a thread connecting you even when you were not touching. Oscar looked calmer than he had earlier, his posture relaxed, his eyes soft behind the mask. The uncertainty that had shadowed him at the beginning of the night had faded into something gentler, something hopeful.
“I am glad you stayed with me,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.
“I would not have wanted to be anywhere else,” you replied.
Oscar’s expression softened in a way that made your chest feel warm. He looked at you as if he were memorizing the moment, as if he wanted to hold onto it long after the night ended. You felt the same pull, the same quiet wish that time would slow down just a little more.
The music shifted into a final waltz, slow and tender. Oscar hesitated for only a moment before offering his hand. “One more dance,” he said. “If you want to.”
You placed your hand in his without hesitation. “I do.”
He led you onto the dance floor, guiding you into the rhythm with a gentleness that made your breath catch. His hand rested at your waist, warm through the fabric of your gown, and you rested your free hand lightly on his shoulder. You moved together slowly, your steps matching without effort. You felt the warmth of him, the steadiness, the familiarity, and something deeper beneath it all, something that had been growing quietly for years.
When the music faded, neither of you stepped back immediately. You remained close, your hands still intertwined, the moment lingering between you like a breath held too long.
Oscar spoke first, his voice soft. “Will you come to the gardens tomorrow?”
You felt your heart flutter. “Of course. I want to see you.”
His smile was small but full of warmth. “I want to see you too.”
The words settled between you with a quiet certainty. Tomorrow felt like a promise, a continuation of something that had begun long before tonight but had finally found its shape.
The night drew to a gentle close. Guests began to drift toward the exits, their laughter echoing softly through the hall. You and Oscar walked together toward the grand doors, your steps slow, neither of you wanting the evening to end too quickly. When you reached the entrance, your carriages waited outside, lanterns glowing softly in the cool night air.
Oscar turned to you, his expression warm and a little shy. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
You stepped into your family’s carriage, and he stepped into his. As the horses began to move, you leaned slightly out the window, watching him through the dim light. He watched you too, his gaze steady and soft, until the distance between your carriages grew too wide to see clearly.
For a few hours, the world felt simple to Oscar. But when Oscar arrived at House Piastri, a servant was waiting for him in the entry hall, holding a sealed envelope marked with his family’s crest. The wax glinted red in the lantern light.
“Your parents asked that you receive this immediately, my lord,” the servant said.
Oscar accepted the letter, still warm from the servant’s hand. He climbed the stairs to his room, the quiet of the estate settling around him. He lit a candle, sat at his desk, and broke the seal.
His eyes moved across the page.
The warmth from the night faded slowly, replaced by a quiet, sinking heaviness.
His parents wanted him to meet someone.
Lily of House Zneimer. A potential match. A suitable alliance.
Oscar set the letter down, his hand trembling slightly.
The happiness of the night still lingered in his chest, but now it was tangled with something else, something sharp, something uncertain, something that made the promise of tomorrow feel suddenly fragile.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the candle flame as it flickered gently in the dark. He had wanted tomorrow to be simple. But clearly, the world had other plans.
The morning light at the estate of House (L/N) felt softer than usual, as if the world itself had decided to be gentle with you. Sunlight filtered through your curtains in warm, golden stripes, warming the floorboards and the edge of your bed. You lay awake for a few moments, letting the memories of the night settle around you like a blanket.
The dance, the way Oscar held you. The promise of today and Oscar’s ask to meet. The warmth in his eyes when he said he wanted to see you again.
You felt a quiet happiness bloom in your chest, steady and warm. It had been a long time since a night had left you feeling so full, so certain, so hopeful. You dressed slowly, choosing a soft gown in a pale color that felt right for the morning. You wanted to look nice, but not overly formal. You wanted to look like yourself.
Your driver took you to the palace gardens, as he often did. The gardens were a shared space for noble families, a place where alliances were formed, friendships nurtured, and secrets whispered beneath the shade of old trees. But for you and Oscar, the gardens were something else entirely.
They were a sort of home.
You stepped out of the carriage and walked along the familiar path, the scent of roses drifting through the air. The morning breeze carried the soft rustle of leaves, and the sunlight filtered through the branches in shifting patterns. You felt your heart lift with every step.
You found Oscar beneath the oak tree.
He stood with his back to you, his posture straight, his hands clasped behind him. His hair caught the sunlight in warm, golden strands. He looked as if he had been waiting for you, though there was a stillness in him that felt different from the night before.
When he heard your footsteps, he turned.
His expression softened immediately, but there was something else beneath it, something quieter, something uncertain. You felt it like a subtle shift in the air, a faint change in the wind that you could not yet name.
“Good morning,” you replied, smiling.
Oscar returned the smile, but it did not reach his eyes the way it had last night. He looked tired, as if sleep had not come easily. You stepped closer, studying him with quiet concern.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “I kept thinking.”
You hesitated. “About last night?”
His gaze flickered, and for a moment you saw the warmth again, the memory of the dance, the closeness, the promise of tomorrow. But then something else settled over his expression, something heavier.
“About many things,” he said.
You felt a faint ache in your chest, though you did not understand why. “Is everything all right?”
Oscar looked down at his hands, his voice quiet. “I received a letter when I returned home.”
You waited, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
“My parents want me to meet someone,” he said. “Lily of House Zneimer.”
The name meant little to you, but the meaning behind it was unmistakable. Noble families arranged meetings between a male and female for one reason only. You felt the warmth in your chest falter, replaced by something colder, something uncertain.
Oscar nodded, his jaw tightening. “They think it is time I consider a match.”
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “And what do you think?”
“I do not know,” he said. “I only know what they expect.”
You felt the ache deepen. “And what do you expect of yourself, Oscar?”
Oscar looked at you then, really looked, and the emotion in his eyes made your breath catch. “I expect myself to do what is right. Even if I do not understand what that is yet.”
You wanted to reach for him. You wanted to tell him that he was allowed to want things, allowed to choose, allowed to feel. But the words tangled in your throat, caught between fear and hope.
Oscar stepped back slightly, the movement small but unmistakable. “I do not want this to change anything between us.”
You forced a small smile. “It does not have to.”
But you both felt the shift.
Oscar exhaled, relieved and conflicted all at once. “I just need time to think.”
“Of course,” you said, though the agreement felt like swallowing something sharp.
He nodded, grateful. “Thank you.”
You stood together beneath the oak tree, the morning light filtering through the leaves in soft, shifting patterns. The air smelled of dew and fresh grass. It should have felt peaceful. It should have felt like every other morning you had shared in this place.
But it did not. Something had changed.
Oscar stepped back again, his gaze lingering on you with a quiet longing he did not understand. “I will see you soon,” he said.
He turned and walked away, his steps slow and heavy, as if each one carried a weight he was not ready to bear.
You watched him go, your hand drifting to the star charm on your bracelet. It felt warm against your skin, a reminder of the night before, of the closeness you had shared, of the promise of tomorrow.
But promises were fragile.
And sometimes the world did not wait for them to grow.
Oscar did not return to the gardens the next day.
You waited beneath the oak tree for nearly an hour, the morning sun warming the stone bench beneath you. The breeze carried the scent of roses and fresh grass, and the palace grounds were quiet except for the distant sound of servants beginning their daily work. You traced the star charm on your bracelet, letting the metal warm beneath your fingertips.
You told yourself he was simply delayed. You told yourself he would appear any moment. You told yourself he had not forgotten.
But the hour passed, and the path remained empty.
You left the gardens with a quiet ache in your chest, one you did not yet understand.
Oscar had not forgotten. How could he? How could he forget a seemingly lifelong habit of visiting the gardens just to see you?
He simply could not bring himself to face you.
He stood in the entry hall of House Zneimer, his posture straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression carefully composed. The manor was elegant and understated, filled with soft colors and warm light. It was the kind of place that felt peaceful, almost serene.
Lily entered the room with a quiet grace that matched the house itself.
She was soft spoken, with dark hair braided neatly over one shoulder and eyes that held a thoughtful intelligence. Her gown was simple but beautifully made, and she carried herself with a calm confidence that came from knowing exactly who she was.
She smiled politely. “Lord Oscar. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Oscar bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine.”
They walked together through the gardens of her manor, accompanied by a chaperone who kept a respectful distance. Lily spoke gently, asking about his studies, his interests, his family. She listened carefully to his answers, her expression warm and attentive.
She was kind and she was intelligent. She was everything a noble family would want for their son.
Oscar knew this. He also knew that none of it mattered.
Because every time Lily smiled, he thought of your smile. Every time she asked a question, he heard your voice instead. Every time she looked at him, he felt the absence of your gaze like a hollow space in his chest. Every time Lily did anything, Oscar couldn’t help but compare her to you.
She was perceptive, far more than most people realized. In some ways, she was like Oscar. She watched him with quiet understanding, her eyes soft rather than offended. She did not push. She did not pry. She simply walked beside him, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
After a long moment, she spoke.
“You care for someone else.”
Oscar froze in his place.
Lily’s voice remained gentle. “You do not have to explain. It is written all over you.”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “I do not know what I feel.”
Lily smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in it. “You do. You are simply afraid to name it.”
Oscar looked away, his gaze drifting toward the distant hills. “It is complicated.”
“Feelings usually are,” Lily said. “But they are also simple in their own way. You subconsciously speak of another, you incorporate her into every movement. When you speak of her, your voice changes. When you think of her, your eyes soften. When you try not to think of her, you look like you are holding your breath.”
Oscar felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I did not mean to be disrespectful.”
“You are not,” Lily said. “You are honest. And I appreciate honesty.”
They walked in silence for a few steps.
Then Lily added, “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”
Oscar’s breath caught. “I do not think she sees me that way.”
Lily gave him a small, knowing smile. “Then she is the only one who does not.”
You did not know any of this.
You only knew that Oscar did not come to the gardens. Not that day. Not the next. Not the one after.
You told yourself he was busy. You told yourself he needed time. You told yourself he would come back.
But the days stretched into a week.
And the quiet distance between you began to grow.
The days after Oscar’s visit to House Zneimer passed slowly, each one stretching longer than the last. You returned to the palace gardens every morning, walking the familiar path beneath the oak trees, listening to the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the fountains. The sunlight warmed the stone benches, and the scent of roses drifted through the air, but the place felt different without him.
You sat beneath the oak tree, tracing the star charm on your bracelet, letting the metal warm beneath your fingertips. You told yourself he was busy. You told yourself he needed time. You told yourself he would come back.
But the quiet ache in your chest grew a little heavier each day.
Oscar did try to come back.
Twice he walked all the way to the palace gardens, his steps slow and uncertain. He reached the edge of the path where the oak tree came into view, where he knew you would be sitting, waiting with that soft patience he had always admired.
He stood beneath the shade of a smaller tree, hidden from sight, watching you from a distance. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, your posture calm, your expression thoughtful. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair, turning them warm and golden. You looked peaceful, but there was something in the way you held yourself that made his chest tighten.
He wanted to go to you. By the gods, he wanted to go to you. He wanted to sit beside you. He wanted to tell you everything.
But the letter weighed on him like a stone. And Lily’s quiet understanding echoed in his mind.
He turned away both times, his steps heavy, his breath unsteady.
Lily was not the reason he stayed away.
She was gentle and thoughtful, with a calm presence that made conversations easy. She listened carefully, spoke softly, and carried herself with a quiet confidence that came from knowing her own mind. She was intelligent, well read, and kind in a way that felt effortless rather than performed.
Oscar liked her. He respected her. He even enjoyed her company. But every moment with her felt like standing in a room that was almost warm, almost bright, almost right.
Because Lily did not laugh the way you did. She did not tilt her head when she was curious. She did not look at him with the same steady warmth that made him feel seen. She did not make the world feel softer simply by being in it. She simply was not you.
Lily noticed the comparisons even when he tried to hide them.
One afternoon, as they walked through the Zneimer gardens, she paused beside a row of pale blue flowers. The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting soft shadows across her face.
“You are thinking of her again,” she said gently.
Oscar froze. “I am sorry.”
“You do not need to apologize,” Lily replied. “It is not something you can control.”
He looked down at his hands, his voice quiet. “I do not want to hurt you.”
“You are not hurting me,” she said. “You are hurting yourself.”
Oscar swallowed, the truth settling heavily in his chest.
Lily continued, her tone soft. “You speak of her without realizing it. You look toward the palace gardens even when we are not there. You hold yourself as if you are waiting for something that has not happened yet.”
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. “I do not know what to do.”
“You do,” Lily said. “You are simply afraid of what it means.”
He looked at her, surprised by her clarity.
Lily offered a small, sad smile. “I am not the person you are meant to choose. And that is all right. I would rather be respected than chosen out of duty.”
Oscar felt something inside him shift, a quiet understanding settling into place.
Lily touched his arm lightly, a gesture of comfort rather than affection. “Go to her. Or at least stop running from what you feel.”
He wanted to. He truly did.
But the fear of disappointing his parents, the fear of misreading your feelings, the fear of wanting something he was not sure he deserved, all of it tangled together until he could not move forward or back.
So he stayed where he was.
And the distance between you grew.
You felt it long before you understood it.
The gardens felt emptier. The mornings felt quieter. The star charm on your bracelet felt heavier.
The bracelet became well-loved, but also a bittersweet reminder of that night. A bittersweet reminder he left and he would not even meet you, despite asking for nothing to change between you two.
You missed him in a way that settled deep in your chest, warm and aching all at once. You tried to tell yourself it was temporary. You tried to tell yourself he would come back. You tried to tell yourself nothing had changed.
And neither of you knew how to reach across the space that had opened between you.
The morning sun warmed the palace gardens, casting soft light across the stone paths and the dew‑touched leaves. You arrived earlier than usual, your steps light with hope. The air smelled of roses and fresh earth, and the breeze carried the faint rustle of branches overhead. You walked toward the oak tree, the place that had always felt like yours and Oscar’s, the place where so many quiet moments had taken root.
You sat on the bench beneath the shade, smoothing your hands over your skirt, your heart steady and expectant. You imagined him walking toward you with that gentle smile, imagined the way his eyes softened when he saw you, imagined the warmth of the morning settling around you both.
The minutes passed slowly, stretching into something heavier. The sunlight shifted across the ground, turning the shadows long and soft. You traced the star charm on your bracelet, letting the metal warm beneath your fingertips. You told yourself he was on his way. You told yourself he had been delayed. You told yourself he would appear at any moment.
But the path remained empty.
You stayed longer than you meant to, unwilling to leave until you were certain he would not come. When you finally rose from the bench, the ache in your chest was quiet but unmistakable. You walked back toward the carriage with slow steps, the morning breeze brushing against your skin like a gentle apology.
Oscar arrived at the gardens that afternoon.
He had spent the morning pacing the halls of the estate of House Piastri, torn between the weight of his parents’ expectations and the pull of something he could not name. He had tried to convince himself that he needed more time, that he needed clarity, that he needed to think. But thinking only made the ache sharper.
By midday he could not stay away any longer.
He walked quickly through the palace grounds, his breath unsteady, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. Would she be waiting? Would she still be there when all the other days he did not show up? When he reached the gardens, the sunlight had softened into a warm glow, and the air carried the scent of jasmine and roses.
He approached the oak tree with careful steps.
The space felt wrong without you, as if the morning had taken something with it when you left. Oscar stood there for a long moment, his hands at his sides, his breath caught somewhere between relief and regret. He imagined you sitting there earlier, waiting with that quiet patience he had always admired. He imagined the way you might have looked up each time footsteps sounded on the path. He imagined the moment you realized he was not coming.
The thought made his chest tighten.
He sat on the bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns across his hands. He closed his eyes and let the silence settle around him.
He wished he had come sooner. He wished he had not hesitated. He wished he understood what he was supposed to do.
But all he knew was that the bench felt empty without you.
You returned home with a quiet heaviness, unsure of what the day meant. You tried to distract yourself with small tasks, with conversation, with anything that might pull your thoughts away from the gardens. But everything reminded you of him. The sunlight on the windows. The soft breeze through the halls. The star charm on your wrist.
You wondered if he had forgotten. You wondered if he had changed his mind. You wondered if you had imagined the warmth of the night at the masquerade.
You told yourself not to think too much. You told yourself he would come tomorrow. You told yourself nothing had changed.
Oscar stayed on the bench until the sun dipped low in the sky. He watched the light fade across the gardens, watched the shadows stretch long and soft across the ground. He told himself he would see you tomorrow. He told himself he would not hesitate again. He told himself he would explain.
But when he finally rose from the bench and walked away, the distance between you had already grown.
Not because either of you wanted it. Not because anything had broken. Simply because you had missed each other by a few hours.
And neither of you knew how much that small moment would matter.
The celebration at the estate of House Ocon was one of the first major gatherings of the season, a bright and lively affair meant to welcome spring. Lanterns hung from the tall archways, casting warm light across the marble floors. Musicians played soft, elegant melodies that drifted through the halls like a gentle breeze. The air smelled faintly of citrus and fresh flowers, and the entire estate buzzed with conversation and laughter.
You arrived with your family, your gown a soft shade that suited the evening light. You had not expected to feel nervous, but the moment you stepped inside, a quiet tension settled in your chest. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were here to enjoy the night. You told yourself you were not thinking about Oscar.
You had not seen him in days. You had not heard from him. You had waited in the gardens until the ache became too heavy to ignore.
So when you spotted him across the room, standing near a column with a glass in his hand, your breath caught.
He looked the same and yet not the same. His posture was straight, his expression composed, but there was a heaviness in his eyes that had not been there before. He saw you almost immediately. His gaze softened, and he took a small step forward, as if instinct alone pulled him toward you.
It was not dramatic. It was not sharp. It was simply a quiet shift of your body, a gentle step toward another group of guests, a soft refusal to meet his eyes.
You did not trust your voice. You did not trust your expression. You did not trust the ache that had been building inside you.
He had been speaking with a pair of visiting nobles when he saw the way your shoulders tightened, the way your gaze flickered away from Oscar, the way you held yourself with a quiet tension that did not belong to you. He excused himself politely and crossed the room with an easy, confident stride.
“(Y/N),” he said warmly, offering a small bow. “You look lovely tonight.”
You smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Thank you, Your Highness. You look very princely.”
He laughed softly. “I try.”
Lando did not ask why you seemed unsettled. He did not press. He simply offered his arm, and you took it, letting him guide you toward a quieter corner of the room. His presence was comfortable, steady, and free of expectation. He talked about the music, the decorations, and the absurdly large floral arrangements near the entrance. You laughed, and the sound eased some of the tightness in your chest.
Oscar watched from across the room.
He had taken another step toward you when you turned away, and the movement had stopped him in place. He stood there now, his hand tightening slightly around the glass he held. He watched you with Lando, the two of you standing close, your expression softening as you spoke with him.
He did not feel jealousy in the sharp, possessive sense. He felt something quieter. Something heavier. Something like regret. Something that was his fault.
He had wanted to speak to you. He had wanted to explain. He had wanted to close the distance he had allowed to grow. But now he did not know how to approach you without making things worse.
Lily arrived a few minutes later, her gown a soft shade of blue that suited her calm demeanor. She greeted Oscar with a polite smile, but she followed his gaze almost immediately. When she saw you with Lando, her expression softened with understanding.
“She misses you,” Lily said quietly.
Oscar swallowed. “I do not know how to fix this.”
“You cannot fix something you have not faced,” Lily replied gently. “Go to her. Even if she turns away again, at least she will know you tried.”
Oscar hesitated. “She seems happy with him.”
“She is comfortable with him,” Lily said. “That is not the same thing.”
Oscar looked at her, surprised by her straightforwardness.
Lily smiled faintly. “I am not blind, Oscar. And I am not offended by your clear enamourment with her. You care for her. Anyone can see it.”
He lowered his gaze. “I do not know if she feels the same.”
“Then you should find out,” Lily said. “Before the distance becomes something harder to cross.”
Oscar took a slow breath, steadying himself.
Across the room, you laughed at something Lando said, your hand resting lightly on his arm. The sound was soft and warm, but there was a faint edge to it, a quiet strain that only someone who knew you well would notice.
He set the glass down and took a step forward.
But before he could reach you, another group of nobles approached, greeting Lando with enthusiasm. You were swept into their circle, smiling politely, answering questions, letting the conversation carry you away from the ache in your chest.
Oscar stopped again. He stood at the edge of the room, watching you from a distance, unsure how to reach you without disrupting the fragile balance of the evening.
Lando glanced over the heads of the nobles and met Oscar’s eyes for a brief moment. His expression was calm, almost sympathetic. He knew you were not choosing him. He knew your heart was elsewhere. But he also knew you needed someone to stand beside you tonight, someone who would not ask for anything you were not ready to give.
And Oscar stayed where he was.
The music swelled. The lanterns glowed with a soft, warm light. The party continued around you like a dance of starlings in the sky.
But the distance between you and Oscar remained, quiet and heavy, like a shadow neither of you knew how to step out of.
The evening at the party by House Ocon grew livelier as the night went on. More guests arrived, filling the halls with soft laughter and the gentle hum of conversation. The musicians shifted into a brighter melody, and the lanterns cast warm light across the polished floors. Everything around you felt bright and warm, yet you carried a quiet heaviness beneath your ribs.
Lando stayed beside you, not out of obligation but out of a gentle understanding. He spoke easily, guiding you through conversations with other nobles, offering small comments that made you smile. He did not hover, nor did he crowd you. He simply remained close enough that you felt anchored.
Oscar watched from across the room.
He stood near the edge of the crowd, his posture straight, his expression composed, but his eyes never drifted far from you. He saw the way you leaned slightly toward Lando when someone addressed you. He saw the way Lando’s presence steadied you. He saw the way you avoided looking in his direction, even when the room shifted and you had to pass near him.
He felt the distance like a quiet ache.
He had created it, even if he had not meant to.
Lily approached him again, her steps soft, her expression thoughtful. She followed his gaze and saw the way you stood with Lando, your posture calm but guarded, your smile gentle but not quite reaching your eyes.
“She seems quite hurt,” Lily said quietly.
Oscar swallowed. “I know.”
“You should try to speak to her again.”
“I do not know what to say.”
Lily studied him for a moment. “Then start with the truth.”
Oscar looked down at his hands. “I am afraid she will not want to hear it.”
Lily’s voice softened. “She is not avoiding you because she stopped caring. She is avoiding you because she cares too much.”
Oscar’s breath caught, but he did not answer.
You felt Oscar’s gaze long before you allowed yourself to look in his direction. It pressed against your awareness like a soft weight, steady and warm, impossible to ignore. You tried to focus on the conversation around you, but your thoughts drifted again and again to the quiet ache in your chest.
You had waited for him. You had hoped he would come. You had told yourself he would not let the distance grow.
But he had not come to the gardens. He had not even written you a measly letter. He had not explained anything past needing to meet the daughter of the House Zneimer.
So you stayed close to Lando, not because you wanted to hide behind him, but because his presence made it easier to breathe. He did not ask questions. He did not push. He simply offered a steady presence, a quiet reassurance that you were not alone.
At one point, when the crowd shifted and you found yourself momentarily separated from the group, Lando leaned slightly closer.
“You do not have to pretend with me,” he said softly.
You looked up at him, surprised. “I am not pretending.”
Lando gave you a gentle smile. “You are trying very hard to look like you are enjoying yourself.”
You exhaled slowly. “I am trying.”
“I know,” he said. “And I am here with you. That is all.”
His kindness eased something in your chest, but it also made the ache sharper. You nodded, grateful for his understanding.
Oscar finally gathered the courage to cross the room.
He moved slowly, weaving through the clusters of guests, his breath unsteady, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. He rehearsed the words in his mind, trying to find something that would not sound foolish or hollow. He wanted to explain. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to close the distance that had grown between you.
He reached the edge of the group where you stood with Lando.
You felt him before you saw him. A shift in the air. A familiar warmth. A presence you had missed more than you wanted to admit. You turned slightly, your gaze brushing his for the first time in days.
The moment stretched between you, soft and fragile, filled with everything neither of you had said.
Your breath caught as his eyes softened, and the room seemed to quiet around you.
But before either of you could speak, another noble approached Lando with an enthusiastic greeting, pulling him back into the conversation. The circle shifted, and you were swept along with it, your attention pulled away before you could hold Oscar’s gaze for more than a heartbeat.
Oscar stood there, his hand half raised, the words caught in his throat.
He watched as you turned back to the group, your expression composed, your posture steady. You did not look at him again.
He lowered his hand slowly.
Lily stepped beside him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Apologies Oscar, maybe you waited too long.”
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, the ache settling deep in his chest.
But the space between you and Oscar remained, quiet and heavy, shaped by everything neither of you had been able to say.
The celebration at the estate of House Ocon began to slow as the night deepened. The musicians shifted into softer melodies, the kind meant to guide guests gently toward the end of the evening. Lanterns dimmed slightly, casting warm shadows across the walls. Conversations grew quieter, laughter softened, and the air took on the calm that always followed a long night of festivities.
You stood near one of the tall windows, the cool glass brushing your arm as you leaned against the frame. The gardens outside were dark except for a few lanterns glowing along the paths. Lando had stepped away to speak with a visiting noble, leaving you with a few moments of quiet. You breathed in slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.
You had spent most of the night avoiding Oscar without ever meaning to be cruel. You simply did not know how to face him. The ache of the past days lingered beneath your ribs, warm and heavy, and you were afraid that if you looked at him too closely, everything you had been holding back would spill out.
You touched the star charm on your bracelet, letting your fingers rest against the familiar shape. It steadied you, even as it reminded you of everything you missed.
A soft shift in the air made you turn.
Oscar stood a few steps away.
He had not approached loudly. He had not called your name. He had simply walked into the quiet space beside you, his posture careful, his expression uncertain. The dim lantern light softened the edges of his face, casting gentle shadows across his features. His eyes held a mixture of hope and hesitation.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The silence between you was not sharp. It was soft and fragile, filled with everything you had not said in the past days.
Oscar took a slow breath. “I was hoping to find you before the night ended.”
You looked down at your hands. “Well you found me.”
He stepped a little closer, though he left enough space that you could step away if you wanted to. “I wanted to speak with you earlier, but the moment kept slipping away.”
You nodded, your voice quiet. “It was a busy night.”
Oscar hesitated. “That is not the reason.”
You felt your breath catch.
He continued, his voice low and steady. “I have been distant. I know that. And I know that it hurt you.”
You looked up at him then, your eyes meeting his. The honesty in his expression made your chest tighten.
“I did not mean to make you feel abandoned,” he said. “I just… I did not know how to face you after everything.”
You swallowed, your voice soft. “You could have come to the gardens.”
“I know,” he said. “I wanted to. I tried. I just… stopped.”
The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made your heart ache.
You looked away, your fingers brushing the star charm again. “I waited for you. Every morning.”
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, as if the words struck something deep inside him. When he opened them again, there was a quiet sadness there.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I should have been there.”
The apology settled between you, warm and sincere. It eased something in your chest, but it did not erase the ache entirely.
You took a slow breath. “I did not know what to think.”
“I did not know what to think either,” Oscar admitted. “I received the letter from my parents the night of the masquerade. It unsettled me more than I expected.”
You felt the ache shift into something softer. “You could have told me more. You could have written to me.”
“I should have,” he said. “I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
You studied him for a long moment. His posture was tense, but his eyes were open and honest. He looked like someone trying to reach across a distance he had not meant to create.
The hallway was quiet around you, the music fading into a soft hum behind the closed doors. The lanterns cast warm light across the floor, and the night air drifted in through the window, cool and gentle.
Oscar took another small step closer.
“(Y/N),” he said softly, “I do not want this distance between us.”
Your breath trembled. “Neither do I.”
He exhaled, relief flickering across his face. “Then let me try again. Let me explain things properly. Let me be better than I have been.”
You nodded slowly, the tension in your chest easing. “I want that.”
Oscar’s shoulders relaxed, and for the first time in days, his expression softened into something warm and familiar.
Before either of you could say more, Lando’s voice drifted from down the hall, calling your name gently as he approached. Oscar stepped back immediately, giving you space, his expression shifting into something quieter.
You turned toward Lando, but your gaze lingered on Oscar for a moment longer.
The distance between you had not disappeared. But something had changed. Something small and fragile and hopeful.
And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest felt a little lighter.
The morning after the Ocon family’s celebration arrived with a gentle stillness. Sunlight filtered through the curtains of your room at House (L/N), warming the floorboards and the edge of your bed. You lay awake for a few moments, letting the memories of the night settle around you. The music. The lanterns. Lando’s steady presence. Oscar’s eyes finding yours in the hallway.
You had not expected to speak to him. You had not expected him to apologize. You had not expected the quiet ache in his voice. You had hoped for all of those things, but you did not expect it to actually happen.
You touched the star charm on your bracelet, letting the metal warm beneath your fingertips. The memory of his expression lingered in your mind, soft and uncertain, filled with something you could not quite name.
You dressed slowly, choosing a simple gown in a pale color that felt right for the morning. You needed calm. You needed clarity. You needed to breathe.
Your driver took you to the palace gardens, as he often did. The morning air was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of dew on the grass. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in soft, shifting patterns. The gardens were quiet at this hour, the world still waking.
You walked toward the oak tree, your steps slow and steady.
He stood with his back to you, his posture straight, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, turning them warm and golden. He looked as if he had been waiting for a long time, though he did not turn until you were close enough for your footsteps to reach him.
When he faced you, his expression softened with hope yet had an underlying guilt.
“Good morning,” he said quietly.
“Good morning,” you replied, equally as quiet.
For a moment neither of you moved. The air between you felt delicate, like something that could be shaped or broken depending on the next words spoken.
Oscar took a slow breath. “Thank you for speaking with me last night. I know it was not easy.”
You looked down at your hands. “It was not easy for you either.”
He hesitated. “I wanted to say more, but the moment slipped away.”
Oscar stepped closer, though he left enough space that you could step back if you wanted to. “I have been thinking about everything. The gardens. The masquerade. The days I stayed away. I did not handle any of it well.”
You felt your breath catch. “I did not understand why you stayed away.”
“I did not understand it either,” Oscar admitted. “I was overwhelmed. I felt pulled in too many directions, and instead of facing it, I froze.”
You studied him, your voice soft. “You could have told me. You know that.”
“I should have,” he said. “I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. I was afraid of disappointing you. I was afraid of wanting something I was not sure I was allowed to want.”
Your heart tightened. “You would not have said the wrong thing if it was the truth. You just… disappeared.”
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, as if the words struck something deep inside him. When he opened them again, there was a quiet sadness there.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I truly never wanted to make you feel abandoned.”
The apology settled between you, warm and sincere. It eased something in your chest, though the ache did not disappear entirely.
You took a slow breath. “I missed you.”
Oscar’s expression softened in a way that made your chest feel warm. “I missed you too.”
The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made the air feel different. Softer. Closer.
Oscar looked down at his hands, then back at you. “I do not know what will happen with my parents’ plans. I do not know what they expect of me. But I do know that I do not want to lose what we have.”
You felt the truth of that settle inside you, steady and warm. “I do not want to lose it either, Oscar.”
Oscar stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the morning breeze carried the faint scent of his cologne. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
“Can we start again,” he asked. “Not from the beginning. Just… from here.”
You looked at him, really looked, and the ache in your chest softened into something gentler.
“Yes,” you said. “We can start from here.”
Oscar exhaled, relief flickering across his face. He offered his hand, not as a formality, but as a quiet gesture of trust.
You placed your hand in his.
The morning light of the sun warmed your skin. The light breeze rustled the leaves above. The world felt steady again.
Not perfect nor simple. But steady. And for now, that was enough for the both of you.
Oscar stood outside his parents’ study, his hand resting lightly on the carved wooden door. The morning light filtered through the tall windows of House Piastri, casting soft patterns across the polished floors. He could hear the faint murmur of voices inside, the calm cadence of his father and the gentle lilt of his mother. They were discussing something quietly, but he could not make out the words.
He had rehearsed this conversation in his mind all night. He had turned the words over and over, trying to find the right shape for them. He had thought of you, of the gardens, of the way your voice softened when you said his name, and he knew he could not let the uncertainty linger any longer.
He knocked, the voices inside paused and his father called for him to enter.
Oscar stepped into the study, closing the door behind him. The room was warm and elegant, filled with shelves of books and soft morning light. His mother looked up from her writing desk, her expression gentle. His father set aside a stack of documents, studying Oscar with quiet curiosity.
“Oscar,” his father said. “We were just discussing the Zneimer arrangement. I trust your visit with Lady Lily went well.”
Oscar stood straighter. “It did. She is pleasant. Intelligent. Kind.”
His mother smiled. “We thought you would like her.”
“I do,” Oscar said. “But not in the way you hope.”
A soft silence settled over the room.
His father leaned back slightly. “Explain.”
Oscar’s hands tightened at his sides, though his voice remained steady. “I respect Lily. She is everything a noble family could want for their son. But I do not wish to pursue her.”
His mother exchanged a glance with his father. “Is there a reason, Oscar?”
“Yes,” he said. “There is.”
He took a breath, letting the truth settle in his chest before he spoke it aloud.
“I already have someone I intend to pursue.”
His mother’s eyes softened with interest. His father’s expression sharpened with focus.
Oscar hesitated only for a moment. “(Y/N) of House (L/N).”
The name hung in the air, warm and steady.
His mother’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “She is a lovely girl.”
His father considered this for a long moment. “House (L/N) is respectable. Their standing is equal to ours. This is not an unreasonable match.”
Oscar felt something loosen in his chest, a quiet relief he had not expected.
His father continued, “But you have not formally courted her.”
“I know,” Oscar said. “I intend to. Properly. Respectfully.”
His mother folded her hands. “Does she return your interest?”
Oscar looked down for a moment, his voice softer. “I do not know. But I want the chance to find out.”
His parents exchanged another glance, this one thoughtful rather than hesitant.
Finally, his father nodded. “Very well. If this is the path you choose, we will not press the Zneimer arrangement.”
Oscar exhaled slowly, the relief washing through him like warm sunlight.
His mother smiled. “We only want you to be happy, Oscar. And to choose someone who makes you better.”
He thought of you then. The way you laughed, the way you listened, the way you steadied him without even trying.
“She does,” he said quietly.
His mother’s smile deepened. “Then pursue her.”
Oscar bowed his head. “Thank you.”
He left the study with a steadiness he had not felt in days. The morning light felt brighter. The halls felt warmer. The world felt clearer.
He knew what he wanted. He knew who he wanted. And for the first time, he had said it aloud.
The next morning arrived with a soft, golden light that warmed the gardens and brushed gently across the stone paths. The air smelled of dew and early blossoms, and the palace grounds were quiet except for the distant hum of servants beginning their day. You walked toward the oak tree with a calmness you had not felt in weeks.
He stood beneath the branches, the sunlight catching the edges of his hair, turning them warm and bright. His posture was relaxed, his expression open, and when he saw you, something in his face softened in a way that made your chest warm.
“Good morning,” he said, and the words carried a quiet warmth that felt like an invitation.
“Good morning,” you replied, and the smile that rose on your lips felt natural, unforced.
Oscar stepped closer, not hesitantly this time, but with a gentle certainty. “I spoke with my parents yesterday.”
You looked up at him, curious. “About the daughter of House Zneimer?”
He nodded. “I told them she is pleasant and intelligent, but I do not wish to pursue her.”
A soft breeze brushed through the leaves above you. “What did they respond?”
“They asked why,” Oscar said. “So I told them the truth.”
You felt your breath catch, but you did not speak. You waited.
Oscar’s voice softened. “I told them I already have someone I want to pursue. Someone of equal standing, though it did not matter to me. Someone I care for deeply.”
Your heart fluttered, warm and steady. “Oscar…”
He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the morning light brushed across both of you. “I said your name, I told them which family you are a part of. Even before then they understood my stance on not continuing with the arrangement with Lady Lily.”
You felt something inside you settle, gentle and sure. “And they approve?”
“They do,” Oscar said. “They said they want me to choose someone who makes me better. Someone who steadies me. Someone who matters.”
You looked down for a moment, your fingers brushing the star charm on your bracelet. “And you think that is me.”
Oscar reached out, his hand brushing yours with a tenderness that made your breath tremble. “I know it is.”
The words were simple, but they carried a warmth that wrapped around you like sunlight.
You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I deeply care for you too, Oscar of House Piastri.”
Oscar’s expression softened into something warm and relieved, something that felt like the beginning of a smile he could not quite hide. “I hoped you did.”
You stepped closer, the space between you narrowing until you could feel the quiet steadiness of him. “I always have.”
The morning light glowed softly around you, the breeze carrying the scent of roses and fresh leaves. The world felt calm, warm, and full of possibility.
Oscar took your hand fully this time, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Then let us begin properly. No distance. No confusion. Just us.”
You nodded, your voice soft. “I would like that.”
He smiled, gentle and sincere. “So would I.”
The two of you walked through the gardens together, your hands still joined, the sunlight warming your skin. The path ahead felt open and bright, shaped not by uncertainty but by quiet, mutual affection.
With no rush, no fear and no ache in your hearts.
Just the beginning of something real.
The weeks that followed felt like stepping into a gentler world. The tension that had once lingered between you and Oscar dissolved into something warm and steady, something that grew naturally with each passing day. The palace gardens became your shared space again, not a place of waiting or wondering, but a place of quiet companionship.
Oscar courted you the way noble sons were taught to court with intention, respect, and sincerity but he did it in a way that felt entirely his own.
He brought you books he thought you would enjoy, their pages marked with small ribbons where he had written notes in the margins. He walked with you through the gardens every morning, matching his pace to yours, listening with quiet attention. He asked more about your dreams, your fears, your hopes for the future, and he shared his own with a softness he had never shown anyone else. He sent small letters, not dramatic declarations, but gentle thoughts he wanted you to have.
His Royal Highness Prince Lando noticed the shift immediately. He teased you both once, lightly, warmly, then stepped back with a smile that held no bitterness. He had always known where your heart leaned.
Lady Lily noticed too. She greeted you with a kind smile at the next gathering, her eyes warm with understanding. She had never been your rival. She had simply been part of the path that led Oscar back to you.
And Oscar? He grew steadier each day, as if choosing you had settled and calmed something deep inside him.
One afternoon, near the end of the season, Oscar asked you to walk with him to the far edge of the gardens. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow across the grass. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine and early summer blossoms. The world felt soft and quiet, as if it were waiting.
You walked beside him, your hands brushing occasionally, each touch sending a warm flutter through your chest.
When you reached the small stone terrace overlooking the lake, Oscar stopped. He turned to face you fully, his expression open and earnest.
“(Y/N),” he said softly, “I have enjoyed every moment of these past weeks. More than I can say.”
You felt your breath catch. “I have too.”
He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the sunlight brushed across both of you.
“I wanted to court you properly,” he said. “Not because of expectation. Not because of what our families want. But because I wanted you to know that I choose you. Every day.”
Your chest tightened with something warm and full. “I know.”
Oscar’s voice softened. “I want to continue choosing you. If you will let me.”
You smiled, gentle and sure. “I would love that.”
The relief that washed across his face was quiet but unmistakable. He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and the touch felt like something settling into place.
The breeze brushed softly through the leaves above you. The sunlight warmed your skin. The world felt still.
Oscar lifted his free hand, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His touch was careful, reverent, as if he were afraid to rush the moment.
“May I?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes trailing between your eyes and your lips.
Oscar leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you did not. His lips met yours in a soft, warm kiss that felt like the culmination of every quiet moment, every shared glance, every step you had taken toward each other.
It was gentle and it was steady. It was everything and more.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
“You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that,” he murmured.
You smiled, your voice soft. “I think I do.”
Oscar laughed quietly, the sound warm and full of affection. He pressed another soft kiss to your forehead, then took your hand again, holding it as if it were something precious.
The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the lake, as the breeze carried the scent of summer. And the two of you stood there, hand in hand, knowing that this was only the beginning.
The beginning of something real. Something chosen, and that something was yours.
Tags: @airenicbibliophile @wertyuizxcvbnm @caffeinatedlyyours
