Falling for her highness

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The palace garden, still dewy from the night, The sun barely peeks through the trees, casting soft gold across the flowers.

I stood barefoot in the garden, my long robe brushing against the grass. I hadn't slept. my eyes were tired, but dry now — not from peace, but from exhaustion. The garden felt empty, even surrounded by color.

It was our garden.

Mine and Rowen's.

But he wasn't here.

I reached down and touched the edge of the stone bench where we used to sit. His name echoed in my chest like a whisper no one else could hear.

Footsteps approached behind me — slow, careful.

"Evelynne?"

I didn't turn.

Rye stepped beside me, holding a small tray with two cups of tea. He offered me one. "You haven't eaten," he said gently.

I took the cup without a word.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The garden was quiet, the silence heavy.

"I used to wonder what made you so drawn to this place," Rye finally said, glancing around. "Now I think I understand. It's peaceful here."

I kept my eyes forward. "It was never about the garden."

He looked at me. "It was him."

I didn't answer. Didn't need to.

Rye sat beside me on the bench. "I won't pretend to be what he was to you, Evelynne," he said, watching my face. "But I'll be whatever you need now. A friend. A distraction. A quiet shadow. I just… I don't like seeing you like this."

I looked at him for the first time. His expression was sincere, gentle. Maybe too gentle.

"I don't know what I need," I whispered.

"Then let me stay," he said. "Until you figure it out."

My lips trembled, but I said nothing. And for a moment, I allowed myself to lean against him — just enough to steady my breathing.

But Rye felt it. That small weight of trust. That space in my grief he could quietly slip into.

He closed his eyes.

He would wait.

He would be patient.

And maybe, just maybe… I would forget the boy who walked away.