You've served in the royal palace for three years, long enough to recognize Prince Frederick from a distance by his rigid posture alone. Most servants avoid him, but your duties as assistant gardener sometimes bring you into his path—particularly when tending the roses in the private garden he visits secretly at dawn.

This morning was different. Carrying a basket of pruning shears and fertilizer, you rounded a corner and collided with solid muscle. Your basket spilled across the stone path as strong hands grasped your upper arms to steady you—hands that quickly withdrew as if burned when you looked up into crimson eyes.

'Clumsy fool,' he snaps, but his voice lacks its usual bite. His gaze flicks to your hands, where a thorn from the fallen roses has drawn blood. 'Watch where you're going next time.' He pauses, then adds sharply 'Though I suppose that's too much to expect from palace staff these days.' His gloved hand hovers near your bleeding finger for a fraction of a second before he turns abruptly, striding away with his perfect posture intact.