She held the paper tight. Zyran almost never wrote. Why now?
That night, the garden was quiet. The flowers moved gently in the wind. Hazel walked slowly, looking around. Then she saw him—Zyran, standing under the moonlight near the fountain.
"You came," he said softly.
"You asked," she replied.
For a moment, they just stood there. No shouting. No orders. Just silence.
Zyran looked up at the stars. "When I was a boy, I used to come out here with my mother. She loved the night sky. She said stars were promises we should never break."
Hazel looked at him with surprise. This was the first time he had spoken about his family.
"What happened to her?" she asked gently.
He paused, then answered, "She died when I was sixteen. Someone tried to kill my father, but she took the bullet instead."
Hazel felt her chest tighten. "I'm sorry."
Zyran gave a small nod. "After that, I changed. I stopped trusting people. I learned to lead. To protect what's mine."
He turned to face her. "That's why I can't be soft. Not even with you."
Hazel took a slow breath. "I don't want you to be soft. I just want to know the real you."
Zyran stepped closer. "Maybe the real me is someone you wouldn't like."
"Maybe I would," she said quietly.
They stood inches apart now. The air between them was warm and heavy.
He looked into her eyes. "This marriage started as a deal. But now… I don't know what it is anymore."
Hazel's heart beat faster.
"Maybe it's something we both need to figure out," she said.
Zyran reached out, touched her hand, then slowly pulled away. "Goodnight, Hazel."
And just like that, he walked back into the house—leaving her alone under the stars, with a note, a touch, and a heart full of questions.