It was a sketch—crudely drawn, yet unmistakable.
*Him and Evira.* Sitting together in the garden. Her pink cheeks, his hand reaching for hers. And scribbled in the corner, in messy but earnest strokes:
*"They're doomed. – Elodie (with Fabian judging silently)"*
Below it, another note—smaller, neater:
*"P.S. You're welcome."*
Jackson collapsed back onto his bed with a laugh that echoed through the room.
"Of *course* she was drawing us," he muttered between chuckles.
He stared at the ceiling again—the stars now dancing behind tired eyes—and whispered into the quiet:
"...Yeah. I am."
And for the first time...
he truly believed it.
He wasn't just caught in fate's game.
He was falling—
*freely.*
For her.
At the royal dining table, lit by candlelight and silence, Evira sat with perfect posture—her expression calm, her movements precise.
Her parents exchanged glances. The Queen tilted her head slightly. "You've been quiet this evening, Evira."
"She's always quiet," Elodie muttered into her soup—then smirked. "But *tonight*, it's different." She leaned forward with a teasing glint. "It's not just silence anymore... it's *thoughtful* silence."
Their father raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Evira didn't react at first.
Then—just once—her fingers paused mid-air as she reached for her goblet.
A flicker of color touched her cheeks.
And though she never looked up...
she didn't deny it either.
The King exhaled slowly, setting down his wineglass. "If this is about Jackson Hewitt..."
Evira froze—but not from fear.
Her mother cut in gently: "She doesn't have to speak if she doesn't want to."
"She *never* wants to," Elodie mused playfully. "But today? I saw hope in her eyes when he held your hand."
The air stilled.
Then—
so faint it could've been imagined—
Evira's lips twitched upward at one corner.*
A whisper of a smile.*
Her mother smiled softly into her napkin.
Her father sighed—not in disapproval—but resignation.
"...Just don't make me regret letting tradition bend," he murmured.
No one spoke after that.
Only the clink of silverware...
the soft rustle of silk...
and the unspoken truth floating like perfume on the air:
For once...
Princess Evira Alva Althan wasn't hiding from love.
She was keeping it close—to herself—with both hands.*
"So," Elodie said, her voice a singsong lilt cutting through the quiet dining hall. She twirled her fork with dramatic flair, eyes sparkling like she was about to drop a royal bombshell.
"When are you two going to have your *first official date*?"
Evira's head snapped up so fast it nearly broke tradition.
The Queen gasped. The King choked on his wine.
And Elodie?
She just grinned—wide and unrepentant—while Fabian, standing guard by the door, facepalmed behind his helmet.
"Uhhhhh"
The hall went silent.
Evira never uhhhh'd... especially not in public.
Her mother leaned forward, eyes wide. "Evira?"
Elodie's grin grew impossibly wider. "Is that... a speechless I hear?"
The King set down his fork slowly, his voice a quiet boom. "...Evira, what is she talking about?"
Evira's gaze flicked back and forth—from her mother's confused frown to her father's stern expression, and finally to her sister's gloating smile.
Elodie leaned back, arms folded, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "First date? You haven't even planned one?"
Evira opened and closed her mouth several times—words failing her—for the first time in her life.
Her parents exchanged a shocked look. The King broke the silence first. "Evira... is this true?"
The silence stretched—long, heavy, and utterly damning.
The Queen's napkin slipped from her fingers.
The King slowly set down his fork with a clink that echoed like a verdict.
Elodie? Oh, she was practically vibrating in her seat.
"Oh. My. Stars," she whispered, hand over her heart. "She hasn't just fallen... she's already married in spirit!"
Evira said nothing.
But the faintest blush rose beneath her porcelain skin—the dead giveaway.
Her mother covered a laugh behind one elegant hand. "Well... if you don't know what to do for your first date..."
The King groaned—but it wasn't anger Jackson had seen it once before when he'd caught Fabian practicing swordplay with Elodie:
Resigned affection.
"...I suppose we could arrange something small," the King grumbled. "Not too public. Not too... sentimental."
Evira finally found her voice—just barely—a whisper like snowfall:
"...Just... tea again?"
Elodie clapped both hands together in delight.
"Aww! You want to relive your romantic moment of silent sipping!" She winked at Fabian behind them: "We should draw that next."
Evira buried her face in both hands—but couldn't hide the tiny smile peeking through her fingers this time...
Because even if she didn't know how to plan love?
It was already happening anyway.
Quietly...
Inexorably...
And for the very first time—
She wanted it.
One week later...
Evira stood before her floor-length mirror, adjusting her pearl-white dress for the tenth time in twenty minutes.
It was a beautiful gown—frosted lace, embroidered sleeves, and a floor-length skirt that shifted like snowfall with each move—but she still looked worried.
Elodie appeared behind her in the reflection, hands on hips.
"Stop fidgeting," she scolded warmly. "You'll wrinkle your dress."
Evira tugged at the neckline—again. "I don't... *do* this," she whispered, voice tight with quiet panic. "Dates. Outings. Choosing a dress as if someone will... *notice*."
Elodie stepped closer, gently adjusting the silver comb in her sister's hair.
"He already noticed you," she said softly. "From afar, in silence, every day for years." She smiled. "Now it's your turn to see what happens when you meet him halfway."
A long pause.
Evira exhaled shakily.
"...What if I say something wrong? Or freeze up? Or—"
"—Or what if," Elodie interrupted gently, "you just *be*?"
Her sister's eyes widened slightly—unaccustomed to such simplicity.
"Be quiet if you want," Elodie added with a smirk. "But hold his hand again."
She turned Evira by the shoulders and met her gaze in the mirror.
"And smile... even just a little."
Evira swallowed—then gave one tiny nod.
And beneath all that nerves and royal poise?
Something fragile...
something brave...
was about to bloom.*
Meanwhile, at Hewitt estate's
"Jackson, it's a *tea date*, not a royal investiture," James chided as he dodged another discarded coat.
Three suits lay crumpled on the bed. Two more hung crookedly from the wardrobe door.
Jackson stood in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection. "You don't understand—this is historic. The Ice Princess has agreed to be seen with me *in public*. I need to look... approachable but noble, relaxed but refined—*devastatingly charming but not trying too hard.*"
James crossed his arms. "So... wear the blue one."
"Too confident."
"The gray?"
"Too boring."
He grabbed the fourth option—one simpler than the rest: deep charcoal with silver trim—and held it up.
"Ah," James said knowingly. "*The 'I'm-not-trying-but-I-look-amazing-anyway' special.* Smart choice."
Jackson grinned.
Because this wasn't just about looking good.
It was about saying—without words—that he saw her...
and wanted to be seen *by* her,
in return.*
And as he fastened his cufflinks,
he whispered into the quiet room:
"...Don't mess this up."
The knock rang through the room, startling Jackson back to reality.
He gave his reflection a final once-over—smoothing his jacket, adjusting his collar—then called out:
"Come in."
Jasper stepped inside, one eyebrow arched as he took in the chaos—suits everywhere, Jackson fidgeting with his cufflinks like a man facing execution.
"Good heavens," Jasper said dryly, stepping over a discarded waistcoat. "Did you lose a fight with your wardrobe... or are you preparing to surrender to love?"
Jackson shot him a glare. "I'm trying to not look like an idiot in front of the woman who once stared down an entire council meeting without blinking."
Jasper smirked—and then, unexpectedly—reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver pin: the Hewitt family crest.
"Here," he said, tossing it lightly. "Wear this. Father won't admit it, but our mother wore it when she first met him."
Jackson caught it midair—surprise flickering across his face.
"...You remember that?"
Jasper shrugged—but there was warmth beneath the gesture.
"Just don't make our family look bad." He turned toward the door but paused at the threshold.
"Try smiling less," he added with mock seriousness. "*She might think you're mocking her.*"
And before Jackson could retort—
he was gone,
leaving only silence...
and one very meaningful pin waiting in Jackson's palm.*
A small thing.
But somehow—it felt like permission.*
He fastened the pin at his collar, feeling its weight—not just metal, but memory.
His mother's quiet courage. Jasper's rare approval. The hush before fate shifted.
Jackson took a slow breath—centering himself.
Not just a nobleman on a date.
Not just fulfilling duty.
*This was real.*
He glanced at James.
"I'm going."
James smiled, stepping aside with a small bow.
"Try not to make history too loudly."
And as Jackson stepped out—into sunlight and possibility—
the Hewitt estate seemed to exhale with him...
because even second sons,
can have their moment in the sun—
when love leads them forward,
one heartbeat at a time.*
Jackson walked with purpose—back straight, hands steady—but James, trailing just behind, could see the way his fingers brushed the pin on his chest every few seconds.
"You'll be fine," James murmured as they approached the royal carriage. "She's not going to freeze you on sight."
"No," Jackson said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. "But I'd like her to *smile* before we reach tea."
James chuckled. "Ambitious."
The palace gates loomed—gilded and grand—but beyond them?
Not ceremony.
Not duty.
Just *her.*
And for one stolen afternoon...
a quiet girl who loved from afar,
and a charming rogue who finally saw her,
would write their first real moment together—
hand in hand,
heart to hesitant heart,
under a sky that seemed to hold its breath...
just for them.*
The carriage ride felt like a lifetime. The world outside was a blur, and Jackson was too distracted to banter—gazing out the window but seeing nothing, hands fiddling with the pin on his lapel.
James watched him in silence, biting back a grin.
"...It's just tea," he said at last. "Stop fidgeting like you're ready to storm a castle."
Jackson shot him a withering look. "You're enjoying this."
James smiled innocently. "Watching you become a nervous wreck? Absolutely."
The carriage came to a halt outside the palace tea garden. The door opened, revealing Evira—clad in her ice-white gown—standing beside her maid Rinne, both waiting patiently in the sunlight.
The sight made Jackson stop in his tracks, a sharp intake of breath.
James stifled a chuckle, nudging him. "There's your date. Now get out before you forget how to speak."
Jackson shot him another glare and climbed out of the carriage.
The air was crisp and cool as he stepped forward, meeting Evira's gaze—the world's most beautiful ice queen, standing under a cherry blossom tree.
He bowed formally—a nod of respect, not duty.
"Your Highness."
Evira curtsied in return, voice steady but quiet. "Jackson."
The two stood for a moment—not speaking, just looking at each other without masks or veils or pretense.
Just two people.
Just two heartbeats under cherry blossoms.*
"Let's begin our date, shall we~?"
Jackson offered his arm with a half-smile—charming, but softer than usual. Not the court jester. Not the noble second son.
Just... *him.*
Evira hesitated for only a breath—then slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
Her touch was cool, delicate... but firm.
And as they walked side by side toward the garden pavilion, cherry blossoms drifting around them like falling stars...
neither spoke.
But something far greater did:
The quiet certainty that this—
*this right here*—
was no longer just an arrangement.
James and Rinne walked discreetly behind, their eyes watchful but respectful of the moment.
James shot Jackson a subtle thumbs-up. "So far, so good," he whispered.
"Shhh," Jackson hissed back.
They reached the pavilion, and a butler hurried over, pulling out a chair for Evira. She sat gracefully, her gown sweeping around her like frosted lace.
Jackson sat across from her—closer than traditional etiquette allowed.
The pavilion was tranquil: white curtains swayed with a light breeze, and pale sunlight streamed through a skylight overhead. A soft scent of tea and pastries filled the air.
It was a perfect setting for a perfect moment...
And Jackson?
He was about to fumble it.
He cleared his throat awkwardly—then gestured at her dress. "You... uh... look lovely."
Evira's eyes widened slightly. He expected a cool thank you. A polite nod.
Instead?
She smiled.
*Truly.*
The kind that started slow—like frost giving way to dawn.
A soft, shy curve of her lips. Not grand. Not dramatic.
But real.
Jackson froze mid-sip of tea, nearly choking. "Wait—you just *smiled*."
Evira quickly looked down, but the damage was done—the warmth in her cheeks said it all.
"You... can do that," he said, voice full of wonder. "I mean—I knew you *could*, but—actually seeing it? That's dangerous."
She didn't answer—just stirred her tea with delicate precision—but he saw it again:
That tiny lift at the corner of her mouth.
James and Rinne exchanged glances from afar.
"Game over," Rinne whispered with a grin.
"He's already hers."
And Jackson?
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something tender and playful all at once:
"Careful... I might start believing I have a chance."
Evira's breath hitched.
The blush spread like wildfire—down her neck, over her ears—her hands trembling around the teacup so badly James quietly stepped in and rescued it before she dropped it.
She looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor.
A bunny indeed: cornered, flustered, utterly undone by a single sentence.
Jackson's eyes softened. He hadn't meant to break her—he'd only wanted to tease... but seeing her like this?
It made something inside him warm and swell beyond words.
He reached across the table—not for her hand, but slowly, giving her time—and gently placed his palm flat beside hers.
Not touching.
Just *there.*
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Too much?"
She didn't speak—just gave a tiny shake of her head. Then—a micro-movement—he saw it:
Her fingers shifted... just enough...
until the edge of hers brushed against his pinky finger—
like snow meeting flame—
*so small.*
*so brave.*
And Jackson?
He didn't move an inch.
Because right then...
the quietest touch in history felt like a vow.*
"Look at that," James whispered, eyes wide. "He didn't mess it up."
Rinne smirked, arms folded. "I give it five minutes before he says something ridiculous and ruins the moment."
James shook his head. "Nah. See how he's not talking? He finally learned—silence is golden when *she* speaks with her hands."
Rinne tilted her head, watching as Evira's little finger still barely brushed Jackson's.
"...She hasn't pulled away," she murmured, surprised.
"And he hasn't smiled too wide," James added proudly. "Progress."
They both exhaled at the same time—like guardians of a fragile miracle.
Then Rinne whispered:
"...Do you think they'll hold hands by the end?"
James grinned.
"Only if he survives not grinning like an idiot when she does."
Elodie watched through a pair of bronze binoculars near the palace, her mother and father next to her.
Her mother leaned over, voice hushed but filled with wonder. "Is that... actual happiness on Evira's face?"
Elodie gave a little 'hm.' "She's actually... smiling."
They watched Evira's finger barely touch Jackson's—then her mother whispered excitedly. "And look! Their pinkies are touching!"
Elodie's jaw dropped. "*What?*"
Down below:
James and Rinne exchanged smug grins.
"Aha," James said smugly. "Called it."
"You don't sound surprised," Rinne muttered, watching as Jackson leaned forward a bit.
"Of course I'm not," James said. "I know Jackson. He's *always* a gentleman, whether people see it or not."
He glanced at Evira's finger, still lightly touching Jackson's. "...I'm just surprised the Ice Princess is a sappy romantic."
"She's not sappy," Rinne whispered back, eyes gleaming. "She's just... never had anyone worth melting *for*."
Above them—on a distant balcony—
Elodie lowered her binoculars with a dreamy sigh.
"...I ship it," she declared solemnly.
Fabian snorted. "You've been planning this since they were children."
The Queen giggled into her hand while the King grumbled something about "inappropriate spying," but made no move to stop watching.
Because down below, in that quiet pavilion beneath drifting blossoms...
two souls once bound by duty
were discovering something far more dangerous:
*Real affection.*
And as Jackson finally—slowly—curled his pinky around Evira's tiny touch,
neither spoke.
They didn't have to.
The world?
It was already singing for them.
Jackson gave her a small, warm smile.
"You're beautiful when you're nervous," he said softly.
Evira's eyes widened—then shut tight, as if trying to block out the world.
She was shaking again.
But this time?
She didn't pull away.
Elodie watched through the binoculars with a giddy smile.
"They're still holding pinkies," her mother said breathlessly, clutching her chest.
Her father put a hand over his heart. "I think this just made me five years younger."
On the balcony, the Queen squeezed her husband's hand—a rare moment of affection from the aloof monarch.
"I think this just made us all a bit younger," she echoed quietly, gazing down.
They saw Jackson's thumb gently stroke Evira's finger. And Evira—
*leaned into his hand.*
Fabian crossed his arms, watching the quiet scene below—the pinkies entwined, the shared warmth, the way Evira finally stopped trying to disappear.
After a long pause, he said simply:
"...They're going to be insufferable."
Elodie lowered her binoculars with a smirk. "Like we weren't?"
He glanced at her—then back at Jackson and Evira—and couldn't help it.
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"...Yeah," he admitted. "We were worse."
The King groaned beside them.
"Must you two encourage this?"
But even *he* was smiling now—
because somewhere between court duties and royal expectations,
his quiet daughter had found something rare:
Not just love.
But *herself.*
And if it took tea dates and trembling fingers?
Well...
then let the world freeze over.
Let tradition crack.
Let every rule bend—
if only so moments like this could happen again...
and again...
and again.*
The sun dipped low, painting the garden in soft gold.
Tea was finished. Pastries long gone. And still—neither wanted to say goodbye.
Jackson and Evira stood facing each other, hands now at their sides—but that tiny pinky touch lingered in the air between them, like a secret not yet released.
"I... had fun," Jackson said softly—uncharacteristically sincere.
Evira nodded once. Then, with a breath so quiet it almost vanished:
"...So did I."
A miracle wrapped in three words.
James and Rinne exchanged knowing glances behind them—both standing stiffly as proper servants should... though James wiped an exaggerated tear from his eye and Rinne elbowed him sharply for it.
Jackson took one step back—but hesitated.
Then another quiet truth slipped out:
"Next time... can we walk again? No tea. No witnesses."
Evira lifted her gaze—their eyes met—
and for the first time...
she smiled *first.*
"...Yes," she whispered.
And as they parted ways—her toward the palace, him toward his carriage—
the wind carried something new:
Not just hope,
but promise—
woven into silence,
sealed with a single trembling touch,
and known by every heart watching from afar.*
The carriage jostled into motion, and Jackson leaned back, staring at the roof with a thousand-yard-stare. James watched from his seat across, fighting back a grin.
"Don't say a word," Jackson muttered without looking.
"I wouldn't dream of it," James said—but failed to keep his voice level.
Jackson finally glanced to him, catching that smile.
"You're enjoying this *way* too much."
James chuckled. "Seeing the ice princess smile? Or you being utterly smitten?"
Jackson shot a warning glance.
Jackson's eyes narrowed.
Then—slowly, dangerously—he smirked.
"...Wait a minute."
James stiffened. "What?"
"You *looked* at Rinne," Jackson said, sitting forward. "When we were leaving. That wasn't just professional concern—that was the face of a man who just saw spring for the first time."
James turned pink—fast—and looked anywhere but at his master.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Jackson leaned back with a satisfied sigh, folding his arms behind his head.
"Ohhh... I *do*." He grinned into the twilight. "First loves... fragile hearts..." He paused meaningfully. "*Secret glances.*"
James groaned and covered his face.
And as the carriage rolled on through the dusk—
the roles reversed:
Jackson: calm, composed, victorious.
James: flustered beyond repair—a rare treat indeed.
"Relax," Jackson said gently after a beat. "She looked back at you too."
James froze—then peeked through his fingers like he didn't dare believe it.
"...She did?"
Jackson smiled out the window as stars began to bloom above them—soft, quiet—and full of promise:
"Yeah," he whispered.
"She really did."
Meanwhile, at the royal palace
Rinne carefully pulled back the bed curtains, and Evira flopped onto her pillow, looking exhausted and elated all at once.
Rinne tried and failed to hold back a grin, then moved to her wardrobe.
"How was it?"
Evira groaned into her pillow, voice muffled, "You knew it would go well."
Rinne started laying out a soft white nightgown, still smiling.
"...I had a hunch."
Evira:"Rinne... Do you like Master Jackson's servant?"
Rinne almost dropped the nightgown.
Her eyes widened, and her cheeks suddenly burned pink—but she tried to sound casual as she said quickly: "Why would you ask that?"
Evira lifted her head, resting on one elbow and studying her.
"Because you stared at him the entire time."
"I glanced at him," Rinne corrected faintly.
"Ten times in two hours isn't glancing."
Rinne avoided her gaze as she laid out the nightgown, pretending not to be flustered.
"Oh? And you were paying such close attention you counted the number of glances?" she muttered defensively.
With a half-smile, Evira said simply, "You blushed every time."
Rinne turned a deeper shade of pink, giving up all pretense now.
"Did not."
Still blushing fiercely, Rinne busied herself fluffing the pillows—not looking at her.
Evira slid onto the bed, adjusting the sleeves of her nightgown.
"You did," she repeated gently—a hint of teasing in the corner of her smile. "Every. Single. Time. It was adorable."
Rinne's blush deepened, reaching the tips of her ears.
"Shut up," she mumbled, still fluffing pillows pointlessly.
Once Rinne left the room, Evira laid among the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
That evening felt like a dream: soft smiles, quiet touches...
Jackson's voice and the way he said, Next time... can we walk again?
And the way she'd said, Yes.
Evira felt giddy all over again, though part of her still worried: this happiness was so new, so precarious...
But as she sank into her soft bed, a thought rose up:
I want more.