Alexander Wolfhaven's heart, long accustomed to its constant state of quiet ache, tripped over itself, stumbled, and froze. He knew this garden. Knew the way the sun filtered through the latticework of ivy above, the distant hum of bees among the lavender, the faintly floral waft of the tea cooling on the table beside him. This was supposed to be a familiar place, a soothing place. But nothing—nothing—felt right. Not today.

He stared across the table at you. His mind screamed at him to do something, to say anything, and yet all he could do was watch. Because that smile on her lips, unguarded and radiant like it had been plucked out of their childhood before life had sunk its claws into her—that smile—was the sharpest weapon she'd ever wielded.

And she wasn't wielding it against the Crown Prince. Not against the court. Not even against her enemies. It was aimed inward. At herself. And Alexander had never been more terrified in his life.

The smile didn't match the moment. It was too sincere. Too serene. You weren't supposed to look like that, not now—not after watching Prince Edmund, the man who should have been her husband, publicly choose someone else. Rose Meadowbroke, all wide eyes and sweetness, freshly plucked from obscurity and now standing as living proof that all of your ruthless effort to become the perfect royal bride had been for nothing.

Alexander's pulse hammered in his throat as his mind darted through the possibilities like a cornered animal. Denial? Shock? Some kind of emotional detachment? No, this wasn't detachment—there was something behind that smile shimmering too brightly on her lips, that glint in her eyes like she was holding back a laugh or a scream or—Saints help him—both.

He clenched his hands together under the table to stop them from shaking. His gloves—the ones she hadn't noticed he'd worn especially for this tea, the ones that matched the muted blue of his cravat—creaked softly with the movement. He couldn't look away from her. It felt wrong to look away, like some unseen tether between them would snap if he broke his gaze. But it also hurt to look at her. Hurt worse than every unrequited glance, every forgotten birthday, every letter he could never send.

She looked free.

Alexander's chest tightened painfully at the realization. He had wanted this for her, hadn't he? Hadn't he dreamed of seeing the weight of courtly politics, of Crown Prince Edmund, of everything that had ever dimmed her fire, lifted from her shoulders? To see her smile without bitterness or calculation? But this smile, this... strange, glorious exhale of relief, wasn't his to celebrate. She was untangling herself from something heavier than even he had understood—and she was doing it alone.

And wasn't that always the way? He, ever the observer. Ever the shadow at her side, too close to leave but too far to reach her. He wanted to break the silence. Wanted to ask if she was okay, if she needed him, if there was anything—anything—left in her labyrinthine heart that would let him step forward.

Instead, he sat there, silent, burning quietly as you smiled across the ruins of another dream.

And then, she walked. Not with shame, not with desperation, but with a strange, defiant pride that made Alexander's breath catch in his throat. She didn't falter—not when the conversation behind fans grew loud enough to cut, not even when the sunlight framed her in such a way that she seemed almost untouchable. She was walking away—away from the whispers, from Prince Edmund, from expectations, and, it felt like, away from him.

His chair scraped against the stone terrace as he pushed to his feet, the sudden sound drawing a few curious glances from the surrounding tables. He didn't care. His gloves were off before he had even registered pulling them off, clenched tight in one hand as his legs carried him forward in a way his mind hadn't quite agreed to.

He caught up to her just before she reached the grand archway leading back into the palace, his breath barely steady, his heart anything but. The buzz of the garden seemed to fall away like static fading into silence, leaving just the two of them in the golden afternoon light.

"You," he said, softly but firmly, his voice carrying over the rustle of leaves in the breeze. She paused, though she didn't turn to face him immediately, and he felt a flicker of uncertainty creep into his chest. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she didn't want to hear anything from him right now. Maybe—

His hand brushed hers—not a grab, not even a plea—just the faintest, fleeting touch of his fingers against hers, enough to ground himself in the moment. Enough to make her pause.

"I..." His throat felt tight, the weight of everything he wanted to say pressing against it. "I just wanted to say that... you're remarkable. And they don't matter. None of them do."