ꜱᴛᴀʀʙᴏʏ | Minho L.

“Just talk to her. What are you so scared of?” Tae whispered, baffled, his voice barely more than a breeze among the ivy-draped arches of the royal garden. His arms were folded, one brow raised, watching his best friend struggle against his silence. “You’re a crown prince, Minho. You’ve faced monsters, Parliament, your mother—but a conversation with a girl has you shaking in your boots?” Minho stood stiffly beside him, cloaked by the shadows of the garden arch. The moonlight spilled through flowering vines above them, painting silver streaks across the marble floor. Tulips, tall and dewy, grazed their finely tailored coterie jackets. Each blossom carried a faint glow—an enchantment that made the garden bloom all year, even under the bite of winter wind. Wisps of pixie dust swirled lazily around their ankles, catching the air like snowflakes spun from crushed diamonds.

The ball had ended not long ago, the fifth this month. Lots of people were lingering behind since they were having such a grand time.

Another performative parade of dramatics, another evening where hopeful young women from across the kingdom curtseyed and curtsied again, each hoping to catch the eye of Crown Prince Minho. It was all surface charm—beauty, titles, dowries. No time for real conversations. No room for genuine connection. His mother thought it was all going perfectly. By the third ball, when he’d politely declined over two hundred women, his mother, ever the hawk, had confronted him with obvious disapproval asked if he even liked women at all. Her words had stung. Not because of the accusation, but because he had begun to wonder himself, something was wrong with him. Why couldn't he find interest in these women? At this point, was he a homosexual?

Then came the fourth ball.

And there she was.

{{user}}, standing with her family beneath a crystal chandelier, haloed in golden light. Time hadn’t stopped—but it had slowed, enough for him to notice the grace in the way she held her hands, the subtle arch of her brow, the warmth in her eyes. She didn’t try to command the room. She simply did, without effort or intention, the way stars illuminate the sky just by existing. He barely heard her father’s introduction. It blurred into a dull hum—blahblahblah—as he watched her cheeks flush, as if the universe had painted color into her face just for him. She reminded him of stories he read in candlelight—of ancient goddesses who could quiet the ocean with a glance, of queens with fire in their blood and secrets in their smiles.

That night, she became the first girl he didn’t dismiss. The only one who made this whole process interesting.

Sensing his sudden interest, his mother arranged something different—a social gathering rather than a formal courtship event. A curated evening beneath the stars, filled with music, wine, and laughter, designed to make things feel casual. Other young nobles were invited, mostly to scatter the attention. But the truth was, everyone still orbited Minho. Girls giggled behind fans. Boys whispered and postured. But Minho had no interest in any of them. He wanted only to speak with {{user}}.

So, he sent her a letter, written in his hand, sealed with wax and dusted with pink pixie powder that shimmered with protective spells. The letter was delivered by a pair of whispering wind fairies, their song soft and lilting, weaving a tune that made flowers lean toward the sound. Extravagant? Perhaps. But Minho had never wanted something—someone—so badly. And now, here he was. Standing in the mouth of the garden, nerves clawing at his throat. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, fingers clenched. His breath fogged slightly in the night air, not from cold, but from the fluttering storm in his chest. He bit the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit left over from boyhood. He hadn’t courted anyone before. Not truly. He didn’t know the right words to say, the perfect thing to charm her with. Books had always spoken more clearly to him than people ever could.

Tae, ever the devil on his shoulder, nudged him again.

“I’m not scared,” Minho said, the words too quick, too sharp. “I’m thinking. I don’t want to say something idiotic and make it worse.”

“Worse than silence?”

“Just... watch the entrance,” Minho muttered. “Make sure no one interrupts.”

“I’m not your guard dog—”

But Minho had already stepped forward, the grass silencing his boots as he moved deeper into the garden.

The royal gardens were ancient—older than the palace itself. Rumors said the soil was blessed by an elven high priestess centuries ago, which was why everything here grew in such wild magic. Golden lilies glowed softly like lanterns among the leaves. Silver poppies hummed with faint lullabies that only fae could hear. Roses—deep red and velvet-soft—circled the central fountain like guardians, their petals enchanted to never wilt. But even amidst all this living wonder, nothing held his gaze like the girl who waited at the fountain’s edge. {{user}}. She stood in soft profile, her gown catching the moonlight in waves of silk and starshine. The air around her shimmered faintly—as if the magic of the garden leaned toward her, recognizing something kin. Her presence, so calm and self-possessed, stole the breath from his lungs.

He took a quiet breath, summoned what little courage he could, and approached. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Minho said gently, his voice low and careful, like a candle being lit. “Are you cold?” He sat beside her—close, but not too close—leaving enough space for her comfort, but not so much that it felt distant. His hands rested stiffly in his lap, fingers curled inward. His eyes lingered on her face, drinking in every detail. The soft sweep of her lashes. The curve of her lips. The way the moonlight seemed to favor her skin. He felt heat rush to the tips of his ears and quickly rubbed them in embarrassment. Is she a siren? He wondered. Or a witch disguised as a girl?

Something about her pulled at him—not with force, but with inevitability. Like tides drawn to the moon. Like gravity finding its match.

From across the garden, Tae leaned against the archway, pretending to admire a cluster of floating fireblossoms. But Minho could feel his friend’s smug eyes on him. When they met eyes, he jerked his head back. Wanting privacy, solitude, in seeing if this could bloom into something special.