Jackson sat at the breakfast table with his family, eating quietly—but every now and then, he found himself smiling into his porridge.
Jasper watched him with a raised eyebrow, trying not to grin. Even their father—always stern—seemed impressed.
"You're in a good mood," the Earl said finally, glancing up from his newspaper.
Jackson tried to keep his voice casual, but there was warmth in it that couldn't be hidden.
"Slept well."
Jackson was unusually chatty over breakfast: joking with Jasper, bantering with their father, eating two whole pieces of toast without complaint.
Jasper glanced up from his newspaper. "Are you unwell? You never eat more than one piece."
Jackson swallowed a mouthful of eggs and said simply, "I had a good night," then glanced out the window—and smiled to himself.
Jasper groaned. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're one of *those* insufferable love-sick fools now."
"I'm not insufferable," Jackson said with an easy grin that said otherwise. "I'm just... enjoying life."
"You're being too cheerful so early," Jasper muttered, looking back down at his paper. "It's creepy."
Jackson leaned back in his seat. "Oh, I'm *sorry* my good mood's a bother for you. I'll try to be more miserable."
Jasper rolled his eyes. "Or you could be like everyone else and just keep your happiness to yourself like a normal person."
Jackson smirked. "No chance. Not after last night."
Their father finally looked up from his tea, expression unreadable.
"...And did you at least conduct yourself with dignity?" he asked dryly.
Jackson paused—then, with quiet sincerity:
"Dignity? Maybe not. But I was *me.*"
He stood, pushing in his chair. "And she smiled."
Jasper froze mid-sip.
The Marquis set down his cup—slowly—and stared at his son like he'd just declared war on the moon.
"...The Ice Princess," their father said flatly, "*smiled*?"
Jackson didn't answer with words.
Just a small nod—
and a smile of his own that said more than any decree ever could:
*Yes.*
She did.*
And as he walked out of the breakfast hall whistling?
Even Jasper muttered into his teacup:
"...God help us all."
After breakfast
The halls of the Hewitt estate echoed quietly beneath Jackson's footsteps.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, painting golden stripes across the marble floor—just like yesterday's tea pavilion.
He slowed as he passed a mirror, catching his reflection.
The pin was still on his lapel. Untouched. Unchanged.
But *he* wasn't.
He remembered her voice—so soft: *"So did I."*
The way her pinky curled ever so slightly around his...
The blush that turned her pale cheeks into rose quartz under cherry blossoms...
And that smile—
*that one tiny, perfect smile.*
Jackson touched the pin gently—the silver cool beneath his fingers—and whispered to no one:
"...I want more."
Then he smiled to himself and kept walking,
because suddenly,
every ordinary hallway
felt like it was leading toward something extraordinary.*
Jackson paused at the end of the hall, sunlight spilling over his shoulders.
A memory flashed—Evira's trembling fingers, her quiet strength beneath fear...
And then another: *Rinne, glancing back at James with eyes just a little too soft.*
He smirked.
"Looks like we're both fools," he murmured to himself. "Chasing girls who speak in silences."
Then he straightened—determined—
because today wasn't about looking back.
It was about finding her again.
And this time?
He wouldn't hide behind charm or irony.
He'd walk straight into that garden,
and say what his heart already knew:
*You're mine.*
*And I'm yours.*
*Even if we're terrible at saying it out loud.*
He turned on his heel and strode down the hall—fast.
"James!" he called, voice sharp with purpose. "Send a message to the palace."
James appeared at once, eyebrows raised. "Yes, my lord?"
Jackson stopped, a spark in his eyes—the kind that meant trouble... or brilliance.
"Tell Princess Evira..." He paused. Smiled.
"...I'm coming to steal her for a walk. No tea. No chaperones. Just us."
James blinked. "...You're declaring war on protocol."
"Better." Jackson adjusted his coat—the pin gleaming proudly—
"I'm declaring *spring.*"
And as he marched toward the stables,
the wind at his back...
and her name in his heart...
he knew one thing for certain:
This wasn't just another visit.
It was a *claim.*
*"Evira,"* he whispered into the breeze,
*"get ready."*
Meanwhile
Evira was walking through the rose garden on an early morning stroll—breathing deep, soaking in sunlight—when Rinne suddenly ran up, a note in her hand.
"Princess!" she called, breathless. "A message has come for you!"
Evira stopped, turning. Her heart fluttered slightly—hope and nervousness warring across her face.
"From who?" she asked quietly.
Rinne glanced at the note, her expression unreadable, and handed it to her.
Evira took the paper as the breeze danced around them, trembling.
"...Thank you," she said faintly, trying to maintain composure.
Rinne nodded and stepped back respectfully, moving to stand a few paces away as Evira unfolded the note...
The moment stretched taut, sunlight playing between them.
And then, slowly, she scanned the page.
A million thoughts whirled in her mind, flitting by like butterflies.
*No tea. No chaperones. Just us.*
A blush flared in her cheeks.
"How *dare* he," she muttered—though her heart said something else entirely.
Her fingers clutched the note gently—then, with a breath so soft it barely stirred the air—
she smiled.
Not shy. Not hidden.
*Full.*
And real.
Rinne peeked over—and froze.
"...You're *blushing* again."
Evira didn't scold her. Didn't look away.
She simply turned, sunlight gilding her hair like a crown,
and said, voice low but certain:
"...Prepare my gloves."
And as she walked toward the palace doors—determined, graceful—
the garden seemed to hush in reverence...
because even spring had to pause
when quiet hearts finally began to race.
In the afternoon
Jackson stood at the palace gates—hands clasped behind his back, charcoal coat crisp, family pin gleaming.
No carriage.
No fanfare.
Just him.
And the afternoon sun painting golden stripes across the cobbles, like a path made just for two.
A guard peered out. "You're early."
Jackson didn't look away from the archway. "I know."
He'd been here since noon.
Because some things—some *people*—were worth waiting for.
And as footsteps finally echoed down the stone walk,
soft, hesitant... then growing bolder—
he turned,
and saw her:
Evira Alva Althan,
in a pale blue cloak lined with silver thread,
gloves on, lips parted—
as if she couldn't believe he was really there...
waiting just for her.
He smiled—not too wide. Not teasing.
Just *true.*
"Hello," he said simply. "Shall we walk?"
Evira stood frozen for only a heartbeat—then gave the tiniest nod.
And as Jackson offered his arm—again, no words needed—
she slipped her hand into his.
The moment their fingers touched, the world quieted.
No guards. No gossip. No expectations.
Just sunlit stone beneath their feet,
a breeze that carried cherry blossoms like promises,
and two souls walking side by side—
not as crown and noble,
but as *Jackson* and *Evira.*
And somewhere behind palace curtains?
Elodie lowered her binoculars with a sigh.
"...They're so in love it's nauseating."
Fabian kissed her temple. "Says the woman who cried during our first picnic."
She grinned.
"Yeah... but I was right about them."
And she was—
because sometimes,
the quietest hearts don't need loud declarations...
just one shared walk...
to begin changing everything.*
The capital hummed with life as they strolled—merchants hawking wares, horses clopping along, carriages splashing through puddles.
But Jackson and Evira didn't notice.
They didn't see anything but the cobblestones,
the people,
the way sunlight played across the palace in the distance.
They didn't speak at first, but it wasn't awkward.
No. It felt like something else:
*Companionable*
Evira glanced at Jackson through her lashes—
took in his profile: the confident stride, his hand covering hers, the pin gleaming at his lapel...
"You brought your family's pin."
He looked down at her, voice light. "You noticed."
She tried to match his tone. "I'm observant."
The corners of his lips twitched, holding back a grin. "I know."
Their arms brushed as they walked, the occasional soft touch sending a jolt through Evira—
just as it did through Jackson, though he hid it well.
"You look nice," he said quietly, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
Evira didn't look at him either. "You look nice, too."
They walked in silence again.
Not because they had nothing more to say,
but because they had too much...
and no words felt right enough yet.
*But their silence was.*
As they reached the market, Jackson finally glanced at her.
"Do you mind a little wandering?" he asked, almost casual.
But his eyes shone with something new—
*hope.*
And Evira's eyes answered:
*Yes.*
So he took her hand, led her deeper into the heart of the market—and as they passed stalls piled with bread, cheese, and bright red apples—
he asked, "Hungry?"
Evira looked up at him—hesitant, but not because of fear.
Because she wanted to say yes... to everything.
She nodded once. "A little."
Jackson grinned—warm, real, and so full of quiet joy that her breath caught.
He led her to a small pastry stand where the vendor, an elderly woman with kind eyes and flour-dusted hands, smiled warmly.
"Two honey-almond tarts?" Jackson asked before Evira could protest. "For the prettiest couple in the square?"
The old woman chuckled. "Well! Bold words from a bold young man."
Evira flushed scarlet—but didn't correct him.
Didn't pull away.
Just accepted the tart when he handed it to her—fingers brushing again—and took a delicate bite...
then froze.
Her eyes widened slightly as flavor bloomed: sweet warmth like spring sun on snow—
and Jackson watched her face light up in silent delight,
and nearly forgot how to breathe himself.
She had *that look again*—the one that made his chest ache:
eyes soft, lips slightly parted, cheeks dusted with color.
"Good?" he managed.
Evira nodded slowly—then whispered, almost shyly:
"Better than palace desserts."
Jackson grinned—wide and unguarded.
"See? I told you the capital has secrets."
He took a bite of his own tart—and then, as a cherry blossom drifted down from an overhanging tree,
it landed gently on her shoulder.
Without thinking,
he reached out—
brushed it away with quiet care.
Their eyes met—
and for a heartbeat,
the market faded around them.
Then—a giggle behind the stall.
The old woman winked at them both. "You keep feeding her like that," she said to Jackson, "and she'll forget how to say no."
Evira turned bright red again—but this time?
She didn't scold.
Didn't pull back.
Just held her tart... and kept walking beside him...
hand in hand,
with honey on their fingers
and something far sweeter in the air between them.
She turned to him—still holding her half-eaten tart—and asked softly,
"Where should we go first?"
Her voice was quiet, but steady.
Like she wasn't just asking about the city...
but about *them.*
Jackson didn't answer right away.
He looked at her—the sunlight in her dark hair, the way her gloved hand still rested gently in his—
and smiled.
"How about somewhere you've never been?" he said. "Somewhere... just ours?"
She tilted her head—curious.
So he tugged her hand lightly.
"Trust me."
And without another word,
she nodded—
and let him lead the way,
into winding alleys and golden lanes,
past flower stalls and laughing children,
deeper into the heart of a city that felt suddenly new...
because today?
It wasn't just a capital.
It was becoming their secret story—one step at a time.*
Jackson led her down a quiet alley lined with ivy-covered stone, then through a small iron gate half-hidden by roses.
"Where are we?" Evira asked softly.
He paused—then grinned over his shoulder.
"My turn to surprise you."
Beyond the gate: a sun-drenched courtyard, wildflowers sprouting between cobbles, an old stone bench beneath an apple tree in full bloom.
"This is...?" she whispered.
"*Our* spot," he said simply—sitting on the bench and patting the space beside him. "Found it years ago. Never brought anyone."
Evira froze for just a second—then slowly sat,
close enough that their shoulders brushed—
and when she looked at him,
he was already looking back.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For... bringing me here."
He didn't answer with words.
Just smiled—
as petals rained down around them like silent promises...
and something long frozen began to bloom.*
They both sat on the bench quietly, watching as sunlight danced over the flowers, the old stone walls, the quiet cobblestones.
It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes...
...And then Jackson broke it.
"There's something I want to ask you."
Evira glanced at him, her cheeks still a little rosy from walking.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
He turned toward her, and as she met his eyes,
the world held still like a held breath.
"Are you happy?" he asked, voice low
"Because I am."
The words hung in the air—honest, simple, devastating.
Evira stared at him, breath caught between heartbeats.
She opened her mouth—to answer, to deflect, to whisper *yes*—
but no sound came.
Instead, tears welled—soft and quiet—and spilled over before she could stop them.
Jackson didn't move. Didn't reach. Just watched her with eyes full of warmth and wonder.
And when she finally turned away—embarrassed—
he gently took her hand,
laced their fingers together,
and said nothing.
Because some confessions don't need words:
A trembling touch...
a tear on a pale cheek...
a heart too full to speak...
That was answer enough.
Evira stayed still for a moment, feeling the sunlight on her shoulders, the warmth of his strong hand against her own delicate fingers.
The tears stopped. She wiped her cheeks with her free hand, trying to hide her face.
But Jackson moved closer, not letting go of her hand.
"Look at me." His voice was soft, but his tone was firm: a quiet command.
Evira took a breath, then slowly met his eyes at last.
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and Jackson felt something in his chest break open at the sight.
"Don't hide from me," he said quietly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Please."
She bit her lip, trying to speak—
but he shook his head.
"Don't speak just yet."
And after a breath... Evira nodded, closing her mouth.
Jackson gently lifted his other hand and brushed a tear from her cheek, leaving a trail of warmth.
He kept his hand there for a moment, tracing her cheekbone with a feather-light touch—feeling her skin beneath his fingertips, the flutter of her pulse beneath his palm.
Her breath quickened under his gaze, her free hand curling into a fist in her lap.
"You're trembling," he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. "Are you afraid of me?"
She shook her head fast, the tears still shimmering in her eyes.
Then her lips parted—finally—and a whisper slipped out.
"...Afraid of this."
Her voice cracked on the word, fragile as ice at dawn.
Jackson didn't flinch. Didn't smile.
He simply leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead gently against hers—
and closed his eyes.
"Me too," he breathed. "But I don't want to run from it."
A long silence followed, filled only by the rustle of apple blossoms above and the distant song of a sparrow.
Then—
softly, so softly—
Evira whispered:
"...Neither do I."
"Yes." Evira clipped the timepiece to her belt, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Oh." Jackson stood, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Awkward silence hung between them, neither looking at the other.
He shifted, feeling her slipping away...
Then—
as a gust of breeze sent pink petals showering over them, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:
"Can I ask you something?"
Evira finally met his eyes, looking curious despite her hurry.
"What is it?"
Jackson felt the words rise to his lips, felt his heart hammer like a drum—
and then a horse-drawn carriage clattered up to the gate.
"It can wait." He forced a smile, even though his heart was cracking. "You go. Have fun. And have a great... thing."
"I..." Evira stared at the ground, her cheeks flushed.
Then the driver leaned from the carriage: "Princess? Are you ready?"
Evira hesitated—her hand on the carriage door, her heart pulling in two directions.
"I'm coming," she called softly to the driver.
But her eyes stayed on Jackson.
And in that look—
was *everything.*
Regret.
Promise.
*"Wait for me."*
Then she stepped into the carriage without another word,
the door closing behind her like a breath held too long.
Jackson stood there—
alone among the flowers,
petals drifting around him like silent snow,
as the wheels turned and carried her away...
but not before he whispered into the wind:
"I will."
The carriage rolled over the cobblestones, the sounds of the courtyard fading into the background.
Evira sat quietly, watching the city pass by through the window by her side.
She tried to push thoughts of Jackson aside, but everything reminded her of him—
the petals floating down outside,
the sunlight playing across the streets,
the way her fingers still seemed filled with his touch...
Her hand drifted to her chest, pressing lightly where her heart beat—too fast, too loud.
She closed her eyes.
*"I'm coming,"* she had said.
But what she truly meant—
*"I don't want to go."*
And as the city unfolded beyond the glass,
a single tear slipped down her cheek,
quickly wiped away with a gloved hand.
She looked down at that glove—still warm from his touch—and whispered so softly no one could hear:
"...Wait for me."
Not a wish.
A plea.
To the wind.
To fate.
To *him.*
And somewhere back in that hidden garden beneath apple blossoms...
he already was.*
The carriage wound its way through the city gates, leaving the quiet alley behind.
Evira tried to focus on the scenery—the sun, the trees, the people passing by—
but her heart and head were full of memories:
The brush of Jackson's forehead.
The warmth of his fingers laced with hers.
The way he'd stared into her eyes when he asked if she was *happy...*
*"Because I am."*
She could still see the joy in his eyes, the hope shining bright as the sun...
and suddenly, the world felt too bright, too loud.
She closed her eyes again,
trying to hold onto this moment—the scent of apple blossoms,
the gentle rumble of the carriage,
the faint hum of crickets and songbirds just outside...
and his words, echoing in her mind with every heartbeat:
*Don't hide from me.*
But the palace gates were coming up fast.
The ride was almost over.
And yet... she wasn't ready.
She was afraid.
But—
For him?
For that one moment in the courtyard...
she'd be fearless.
So she opened her eyes, lifting her chin just as the carriage rattled through the gates,
and as the palace loomed above her—
she let out a long, quiet breath.
*Time to be brave.*
The carriage slowed to a halt, the palace doors just ahead.
Servants gathered. Rinne stood by the steps—watching, waiting.
But Evira didn't move.
Not yet.
She reached into her pocket—
pulled out the small golden timepiece,
and with steady fingers,
*flipped it closed.*
And as she tucked it away—her decision made—
she whispered to herself:
*"I choose us."*
Then she stepped down from the carriage...
not as the Ice Princess bound by duty,
but as Evira—
who loved in silence,
and now?
Would learn to speak his name with courage.
Because no protocol. No rule. No royal decree...
could outweigh
the way her heart beat
when Jackson smiled at her
like she was *everything.*
The palace bells rang—distant, formal.
But Evira walked forward with a new lightness in her step, her gloved fingers brushing the sleeve of her cloak where his hand had once rested.
Rinne ran to meet her. "Princess—"
"I know," Evira interrupted softly. "There's still so much to do."
She paused—and for the first time—
*smiled at no one.*
A secret just for herself.
Then she whispered:
"But I'm not running anymore."
And somewhere across the city,
in a quiet garden beneath falling blossoms,
Jackson sat back on that stone bench—
alone,
but not lonely.
Because he knew...
she'd find him again.
And next time?
No interruptions.
No goodbyes too soon.
Just hands held tight...
and one long, unbroken kiss
under an apple tree in spring.*