They were still children back then.
Young. Innocent. Unfettered.
The kind of freedom that exists only in the fragile realm of memory, like sunlight filtering through stained glass—tender, hazy, and impossibly precious.
Yen stood there, the hesitant pillar of a boy just beginning to stretch toward manhood, his frame slight but unyielding. His crooked grin was on full display—an uneven curve that betrayed every ounce of his clumsy courage. It was meant to be a smile, but it twisted like a question mark, as if his heart was still fumbling with the language of affection, unsure how to speak it without stumbling.
Behind his back, clenched tightly in his small fists, was a bouquet.
Not the kind fit for a royal garden or a noble's hall, but a wild, tangled mess of flowers plucked from the edges of the fields—a haphazard collection of snapped stems, dirt-smudged petals, and thorny reminders of his earnestness.
His masterpiece.
He waited, every nerve taut, his eyes locked on the figure sprinting toward him through the tall grass.
Lily.
Her name unfurled inside him like the first bud of spring, warm and urgent.
She came to a breathless halt before him, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with the rosy bloom of exertion. Her hair streamed behind her in dark ribbons, catching the golden sunlight and tossing it back in gleaming strands, a living banner of wild youth.
Yen's ears turned pink as he caught a whiff of her fragrance—the scent of wind and fresh earth and something intangible, something important, something that rooted him to that very spot.
He fought to keep his composure.
"For you."
His voice was soft but steady as he thrust the bouquet forward, presenting it like a trophy won in some private battle of nerves.
Lily's eyes narrowed in mock suspicion as they swept over the sorry bunch of flowers.
A snort escaped her lips.
She crossed her arms, her eyebrow arching in playful accusation.
"Can't you be sweeter? You look like a thief who just mugged a garden."
Yen's frown attempted to form, but the edges of his grin held firm—stubborn and unyielding.
He scratched the back of his neck, glancing first at his grass-stained sleeves and then back at her, his voice dropping into a sheepish murmur.
"I tried…"
From behind the nearby fountain, a sharp voice cut through the quiet tension.
"You should smile! You look constipated!"
Arkon's teasing voice rang out, crisp and irreverent as always.
"Shut up, eunuch." Yen shot back flatly, not even sparing the interruption a glance.
"I'm not a—" Arkon started, already tugging at his waistband in protest, but a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.
"Not in front of the lady!" Colla's voice was steel wrapped in warning, as she dragged the hapless Arkon away like a stubborn dog on a leash.
Arkon groaned, rubbing his sore scalp, while Colla muttered threats thick with loyalty and quiet fury.
Yen exhaled and summoned his courage once more.
He lifted the mangled bouquet higher, eyes flickering with hope.
"I picked them myself."
His smile reappeared, forced but sincere—teeth bared and all—before twisting back into the familiar crooked curve that had become his trademark.
Lily laughed then—a pure, ringing sound that broke the last of the tension between them.
She tried to stifle it with her hand, but the giggles spilled out anyway, warm and bright as sunlight. She clutched the wild bouquet to her chest as if it were a priceless treasure.
The breeze stirred around them, threading the leaves with whispers and rustling through the tall grass like a secret song accompanying their laughter.
Yen laughed too—unrestrained, free—his head tilting back and his voice rising with hers in a chorus meant only for the sky.
Behind the fountain, Colla and Arkon exchanged quiet smiles, their eyes reflecting a shared understanding of something tender, something rare.
Yen reached out suddenly, taking Lily's hand in his.
He lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, gentle and reverent, before turning her palm over and pressing it softly against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed, lost in the warmth of the moment.
"I love the sound of your laughter…"
Lily's cheeks deepened into a richer red, her breath catching in a stutter.
"W-W-W-Where did you—how do you know these things?"
Yen blinked, confusion flickering across his face like a child trying to understand the mystery of the world.
"What?"
He tilted his head, earnest and sincere, squeezing her hand still resting against his skin.
Oh, the sweet clumsiness of young love—so honest, so raw, so achingly real.
Lily giggled again, a soft, delighted sound, like a thief caught in the act of stealing her own heart.
She wrenched her hand free and took off running across the field, her laughter carried on the breeze.
Yen didn't hesitate.
He chased after her, barefoot and reckless, joy pounding in his chest like a wild drumbeat.
---
Time stretched on.
Days melted into each other. Seasons shifted their colors gently and without hurry.
And slowly, as flowers lean toward the sun, they grew.
Not in grand gestures, but in whispered promises and shy glances.
Yen—still bold and bright—found himself stuttering over his own words every time she's present.
He grew quieter, more deliberate, every gesture laced with a new kind of care.
"I would like to invite you to dinner. Do you accept?"
He stood stiffly, extending his hand like a soldier at attention, his eyes seeking hers for a sign.
Lily, ever the tease, puffed out her bottom lip, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"No flowers?"
Yen's mouth opened and closed, the words caught somewhere between his thoughts and his heart.
"I thought you hated it when I plucked—"
"I heard paper roses are popular now. Lovers give them to their sweethearts."
She batted her lashes, her smile a secret shared just between them.
Yen blinked once, twice—slowly absorbing her playful grace.
"Of course."
Before she could say another word, he vanished, slipping away like smoke caught in shadow.
But only for moments.
He returned, breathless, clutching a neatly folded paper lily in his palm.
"I didn't make it," he confessed softly, eyes downcast, voice tinged with awkward hope. "A servant did. Will you still accept it?"
He couldn't meet her gaze.
And yet, in the hush of that moment, the space between them held something sweet and infinite—an unspoken promise written in paper and silence.
Lily reached out and took it, carefully, like it was something fragile. Her fingers brushed his, and he inhaled so quietly it was almost a prayer.
"Paper lasts," she whispered.
"So do we," he said.
And for that heartbeat in time, they believed it.