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You wiped your hand on your sleeve and turned away before the first horn blew.

It wasn’t that you disliked the royal family. You just didn’t care for the spectacle — for the desperation in the way people craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of the gilded puppets who ruled the realm from their marble towers.

You weren’t here for the crown.

You were here for the chaos. The color. The sense that, for one night a year, everything felt real.

Which was why you didn’t notice him at first.

You were leaning against a stone wall, drink in hand, watching a group of fire dancers carve patterns into the night sky. The scent of charred cinnamon and plum wine hung in the air, dizzying. Around you, the crowd stirred and shifted. Whispers rippled out from the direction of the royal carriage — excitement, reverence, awe.

And then the hush.

The kind that falls when something sacred enters a room.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t crane your neck like the rest. You simply turned your head and looked.

And that’s when it happened.

Your eyes met his.

Crown Prince Megumi Fushiguro stood a few meters away, half-shadowed by the guards at his side and the height of the ceremonial platform. He was dressed in deep navy and obsidian black, a sharp contrast to the lanternlight glow that softened everyone else. His hair was pulled back, silver threading the edge of his collar, and a ceremonial sword rested at his hip.

He looked like something carved from dusk.

He was already scanning the crowd — out of duty, you guessed. The kind of passive observation someone in power did automatically. But when his gaze passed over you, it stopped.

Not paused.

Stopped.

And held.

You blinked, surprised. Not by the fact that he was looking — but by the way it felt.

Not hungry. Not judgmental. Just… curious. As if he were trying to figure out what exactly it was about you that didn’t match the room.

Your heart knocked once, uncertain.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t look away. You simply raised one brow in return — a small, almost amused expression. Not mocking. Just present. Undaunted.

You weren’t supposed to catch the eye of the Crown Prince. You weren’t a noble. You weren’t dressed in silk or painted in powdered makeup. You weren’t fawning or smiling or trying to be noticed.

But you had his attention.

And you knew better than to show it affected you.

So you turned away first.

You didn’t expect anything to come of it.

The festival carried on. The dancers performed. You wandered through back alleys and vendor stalls, slipping through the thick of the crowd without ceremony or fanfare.

But hours later — long after the sky turned navy and the music dulled — you returned home and found something odd.

Tucked just inside your windowsill was a piece of folded parchment, weighted down by a small violet.

You stared at it for a long moment.

You hadn’t left the window open. No one had access to your home. You lived in the upper floor of a bookshop, above the creaking floors and scent of aged paper, and the only one who knew your habits was the shopkeeper’s cat.

You unfolded the paper slowly.

Neat handwriting. Sharp strokes. Precise lettering.

"You didn’t say much, you didn’t need to. That’s what I liked about you."

No name. No title. Just that.

And the flower.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t want to believe it — but deep down, you already knew. You remembered that stare. The weight of it. The way his eyes had followed you not like a predator, but like a question.

You turned the note over.

Blank.

You reread it once. Twice.

Then you tucked it away in a drawer and told yourself it meant nothing.

But of course, the world wasn’t kind enough to let it go.

Because three days later, you saw him again.

You were crossing the narrow bridge near the west gardens, a shortcut to the shop. The early morning mist still clung to the stone, curling around your boots like smoke.

You didn’t expect to see anyone there.

So when the figure appeared from the other side, you froze.

He wasn’t dressed like a prince this time.

No crown. No royal colors. Just simple dark fabric, travel-worn boots, and gloves tucked into his belt. But you knew. The way he walked — steady, upright. The way he carried himself like someone who bore weight on his shoulders no one else could see.

Megumi Fushiguro.

You stopped at the center of the bridge.

So did he.

A silence stretched between you.

Then.

“You didn’t bow,” he said.

It wasn’t a reprimand. Just an observation.

You lifted a brow, mirroring the expression he’d given you days earlier. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

His mouth twitched. The smallest shadow of amusement.

“I wasn’t expecting you to remember me,” you added, tone light.

“I wasn’t expecting to notice you,” he replied evenly. “But I did.”

The air between you stilled.

You swallowed. “Is that why I found a flower on my windowsill?”

“I don’t leave flowers for just anyone.”

There was something quiet in his voice. Not flirtation — no, he didn’t seem the type for that. It was something else. Something real. Unadorned.

You stepped closer, just slightly, until only a few feet separated you. The mist curled higher.

“Why?” you asked.

“Why the flower?”

“No. Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dipped, just once, to your hands — ink-stained from morning deliveries, fingers curled loosely against the chill.

Then he looked up again.

“You didn’t try,” he said.

You frowned.

“You weren’t trying to be seen,” he clarified. “You didn’t perform. You didn’t pretend. You just... were. In a world full of people shouting to be noticed, you were quiet. And you meant it.”

Your heart stuttered.

No one had ever spoken to you like that before.

And certainly not him.

The Crown Prince.

You don’t know what possessed you to do it — boldness, madness, maybe the intoxication of being seen — but you smiled. Just faintly. The way a person smiles when they finally stop holding their breath.

“You shouldn't be out here alone,” you said softly.

“And you shouldn’t talk to me like we’re equals.”

“Are we not?”

That earned you the smallest crack in his composure — a breath of a laugh, hushed and tired and real.

“Careful,” he murmured. “People lose their heads for less.”

“I’ve already lost mine,” you said. “Might as well use what’s left of it to say something honest.”

His eyes lingered on you.

Like he was memorizing something he shouldn’t want to keep.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he took one step back.

“This bridge doesn’t exist tomorrow,” he said, voice lower now. “Not officially.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “But if it did, I might be passing it again. Just before dawn.”

You didn’t speak.

But when he walked past you, his sleeve brushed yours.

And it was the softest thing you’d ever felt.