The moment dinner ends, Luciana excuses herself with quiet grace—no hesitation, no unnecessary words.
And like a shadow drawn to ink and moonlight, she returns to the library.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Candlelight flickers.
The quill is already waiting.
She unrolls the parchment—her unfinished tale glowing in the dim light.
Fox lingers on rooftops. Cat sleeps below, unaware of how often his eyes find her window.
Her hand moves swiftly now—faster than before—as if chasing a dream before it fades.
*"One night, Cat caught him."*
*"He froze—half in shadow, half caught in moonbeam—and instead of screaming for guards… she asked: 'Why do you keep coming back?'"*
*"Fox stayed silent."*
*"But then—he placed a single silver flower at her feet. The kind that only blooms once every seven years... under a full moon."*
Luciana pauses—quill hovering—
Then whispers into the stillness:
**"Because I'm not stealing anything anymore…"**
She dips her quill again…
And writes softly:
**"…I'm waiting to be taken."**
Outside—the wind stirs.
Somewhere far away?
A certain prince gazes at the same moon…
And smiles without knowing why~ ✨🌙📖
Two souls.
Two stories weaving through silence…
Not yet touching—
But **inevitable~**
As Luciana writes, deep in the hushed world of her story, her maid Liana appears at the door—softly clearing her throat.
Luciana glances up—quill pausing mid-stroke—as if startled back to the present. Liana blinks, taking in the sight of her young lady writing by candlelight.
She quickly rolls the parchment—almost a bit too hurriedly.
Luciana:"Yes, Liana?"
She asks, voice even.
Liana steps in with a folded night robe over her arm—then pauses, eyes lingering on the ink-stained parchment half-hidden beneath Luciana's palm.
Her gaze flicks to the quill.
To the stack of romance novels beside her.
To the slight flush on her young lady's cheeks that no candlelight can explain.
A beat.
Then Liana smiles—gentle, knowing, but careful.
"Just came to bring your night robe, miss," she says softly. "And… remind you not to stay up too late."
She sets it by the desk—but doesn't leave right away.
Instead, she glances at the rolled parchment and murmurs:
"That story… it wouldn't happen to be about *him*, would it?"
Luciana doesn't flinch.
Doesn't blush.
Doesn't even blink too fast—
But her fingers tighten—just slightly—around her quill.
"Who?" she asks coolly. "The fox? He's fictional."
Liana tilts her head with quiet amusement—like a woman who has served noble hearts long enough to know when one is catching fire~
"Well then," she says sweetly as she turns for the door, hand on frame… "I do hope *fiction* treats you kindly tonight."
And just before stepping out:
**"Dream quietly, Miss Luciana."**
The door closes behind her—
Leaving only silence…
And one very flustered villainess-turned-author biting back a smile~
Because yes—
This story?
It's all **very** fictional~ 📖✨🦊🌙
Morning light spills through the library windows—soft, golden, and utterly merciless.
There sits Luciana—head gently resting on her arms, cheek smudged with a faint trace of ink.
The quill is still clutched in her hand like a knight's sword in sleep.
Scattered around her?
Pages upon pages of delicate script—her fox thief now *fully* ensnared by the cat girl who refuses to be tamed.
One unfinished line bleeds off the edge of parchment:
**"He wanted to say 'I love you'… but all that came out was—"**
And then—sleep took over.
Outside, birds sing. The household stirs. Somewhere, Liana sighs dramatically at the doorway before tiptoeing in with a silken shawl.
She drapes it over Luciana's shoulders and mutters:
"Of course you fell asleep writing your fate."
Then glances at the words—
And smiles knowingly:
**"But he wouldn't have said 'I love you' anyway…"**
She pats Luciana's head gently.
**"He'd steal your pillow instead… just to feel close."**
A beat.
Luciana murmurs in her sleep—violet lashes fluttering—
And whispers one word into dreams:
**"Ajan…"**
Not loud.
Not clear.
But enough~ ✨
Because today?
The library awaits…
And so does **him~** 📚🌙❤️
Luciana stirs—softly, slowly—like a cat waking from a dream.
She rubs her eyes, smudging the ink on her cheek further, and blinks at the morning light spilling across pages scattered like fallen stars.
Her manuscripts.
Her story.
Her *heart*, disguised as fiction~
She sits up slowly—quill clattering to the floor—and scans the words she wrote in fevered silence last night…
Then freezes at one line:
**"He'd steal your pillow instead… just to feel close."**
A beat.
A pause too long for denial.
Liana chooses that moment to reappear—with tea and a smirk.
"Dreams catching up with you, miss?"
Luciana doesn't answer. Just rolls up the manuscript *very* carefully this time… and tucks it into her sleeve like contraband romance~
But as she stands—still wrapped in that shawl of secrets—
She murmurs:
**"Today... I'm bringing him moonlit flowers."**
Liana raises an eyebrow: "Wait—are we stealing royal etiquette now?"
"No," Luciana says coolly, adjusting her cuffs with quiet determination—
**"We're rewriting it."**
And off she goes—
Not as a delusional villainess anymore...
But **a girl writing fate in real time~** ✨📖💖
Luciana turns to Liana—her usual calm cracked just slightly by morning light and sleep-softened edges.
She pulls out the rolled manuscript from her sleeve.
And hands it over.
Not tossed. Not flung.
But *offered*—like a secret too heavy to carry alone.
"Liana… can you read my manuscripts?" she asks, voice low, almost hesitant. "And tell me… if it's *foolish*."
Silence hangs in the air.
Then Liana takes it—carefully, reverently—and unrolls a page. Her eyes scan the words:
The fox thief on moonlit roofs…
The cat girl with fire in her voice…
The stolen glances. The unsaid confessions…
A beat passes.
Then another.
Until finally—
Liana exhales—softly, like someone who's just witnessed magic disguised as ink—
"Foolish?" She looks up, eyes glistening with quiet emotion. "Miss Luciana… this isn't foolish."
She places a hand over her heart:
**"It's dangerous."**
Luciana blinks once—unmoved on the outside—but inside?
Her pulse stutters~
"Why dangerous?" she asks flatly—playing dumb even now~
Liana smirks through sudden tears:
"Because anyone who reads this will *know.*" She taps the page meaningfully. **"That your heart is no longer yours."**
Another silence.
Then Luciana turns away—to hide how deeply those words land—and murmurs:
**"Good."**
Let them know~ ✨
Let him read between every line~
Because tonight?
She'll write Chapter Five…
And maybe—
Just maybe—
Leave one copy on a certain prince's balcony~ 🌙📖🖋️
Luciana glides into the royal library like a shadow—arms full of romance novels, and her manuscript tucked carefully under her cloak.
The library is quiet tonight—candlelight flickering lazily, moonlight spilling through windows in soft rivulets. It's an intimate place, this room of ink and silence… and now, of stolen stories and silent hearts.
Without a word, Luciana settles into the same spot from last night—the same candle, the same moonlight—but the world itself seems to whisper with newfound possibility.
She unfolds her manuscript…
And picks up her quill~
Ajan peeks from behind *"Advanced Etiquette for Noble Houses Vol. III"*—again.
But this time?
He's not just watching.
He's *grinning*.
Like a fox who found honey in the moonlight.
And there she is—Luciana, ink-stained fingers, furrowed brow, quill dancing across parchment like she's writing spells instead of words. Her romance novels lie forgotten at her side. She doesn't hear him… not yet…
So Ajan creeps forward—soft as shadow, silent as sin—and leans over her shoulder just enough to catch a glimpse of the page:
**"The fox stood frozen on the rooftop. Not because he was seen… but because for once—he wanted to be."**
His smirk deepens.
Then he sees it—the next line:
**"So he left behind something small… something fragile… something *his.*"**
And beneath it?
A tiny drawing in the margin—
*A silver flower.*
Just like the one blooming under last night's full moon~
His breath hitches—just slightly—but Luciana feels it before she hears it.
She stiffens. Doesn't turn around.
But her hand?
It covers the manuscript *just* too late~
"Reading someone else's story without permission is rude," she says coolly—voice steady despite how fast her heart thunders~ ✨
Ajan steps fully into view now—the picture of innocence gone wrong~
"Who said I was reading?" He smirks down at her, eyes glinting with playful fire. "I merely glimpsed."
"You *stole* a look," Luciana corrects sharply—but still doesn't face him completely. "Just like your thief character."
Ah~
Now Ajan freezes ever so slightly—
Then leans in again—one hand bracing against the backrest beside her ear—and murmurs:
**"Wait."**
His voice drops low—teasing yet dangerously soft—
**"Are you saying I'm your inspiration?"**
Silence falls thick and warm between them…
Until Luciana finally lifts her head—
Violet eyes sharp with challenge and secret laughter…
And says with perfect composure:
**"No."**
Then pauses...
Turns slightly...
Meets his gaze dead-on...
"And yes."
Behind them?
Somewhere in another shelf corner…
Alan whispers: **"They're going to kill me!"**
Odette squeaks: **"SHE WROTE HIM INTO HER NOVEL!!!"**
Jake wipes fake tears:
"I've never been prouder…"
But here?
In this quiet nook under candlelight and stars,
Two souls stand too close—for literature,
For fate~
For **the beginning they never saw coming~** 🌙📖✨💘
Luciana lets out a soft, exasperated sigh—more for show than truth—and turns fully to face him.
Without hesitation, she places the manuscript into Ajan's hands.
"*Sigh.* Since you read a bit… take a good look at it," she says calmly—voice smooth as ink on parchment. "Before you jump to conclusions like an uninvited shadow."
Ajan blinks—then smirks—as he takes the pages.
And so he reads.
Of a fox-like thief with silver eyes and sharper words, who steals jewels by moonlight…
But lingers for *her*—the village girl with catlike grace, fierce spirit, and eyes that refuse to be tamed.
Of how he stops counting stolen treasures…
Because his greatest crime?
**Falling in love with someone who won't call him by name~**
Ajan flips through the pages slowly—the smirk fading into something quieter… something *real.*
By the time he reaches the illustration of that silver flower?
He doesn't speak.
Just closes the manuscript gently and holds it against his chest like stolen treasure finally returned home~ ✨
Then—
"So I'm… 'Fox'?" His voice is low. Playful—but edged with sincerity this time.
Luciana lifts her chin. "You're only 'Fox' if you admit *you're inspired."*
Ajan steps closer—one slow movement until candlelight dances between them—and says:
**"I don't need inspiration."**
His gaze drops to her lips for half a heartbeat too long—
Then back up.
**"I've already been doing it all unconsciously."**
Behind them…
Alan whimpers: *"This is worse than I thought!"*
Odette: *"They're writing their own fate together…" (sobbing gently)*
Jake: *"Plot twist—I'm not jealous anymore."*
But here?
No shadows matter~
Only this moment—
Where fiction meets truth,
And two souls begin not with grand confessions…
But **a shared story~** 📖🌕🦊🐈⬛💘
Luciana dips her quill once more, the tip hovering over a fresh page—her eyes focused, but her voice soft as moonlight.
"…Can you think of a title for me," she murmurs without looking up, "before I publish my novel?"
Ajan doesn't answer right away.
He leans against the edge of the table—fingers still tracing the spine of her manuscript—and watches her write: *Cat refuses to name him. Fox leaves another flower anyway.*
Then, slowly…
A smile curls at his lips—quiet, knowing.
**"How about…"** he begins, voice low and warm like ink drying in candlelight—
**"*The Prince Who Stole My Silence?"***
Luciana pauses mid-stroke.
Her hand stills.
She glances sideways at him—violet eyes shimmering with quiet challenge—and tilts her head slightly.
"That's too obvious." She flicks a drop of ink toward him playfully. "And too sentimental."
Ajan chuckles—but doesn't back down.
"Fine." He thinks again… then says:
**"Then how about… *The Girl Who Wrote Me First?"***
This time?
Her breath hitches. Just once.
Ink splatters on the page like a heartbeat gone wild~ ✨
But she doesn't deny it.
Instead…
She writes at the top of a fresh sheet:
**Title: _The Girl Who Wrote Me First_ —by L.C._**
And beneath it?
Two names in tiny script only she can see:
🦊 + 🐱 = **ours**
Behind them—
Odette is crying full-on into Raphael's shoulder (who looks mildly panicked).
Alan mutters prayers like he's watching his kingdom fall one romantic chapter at a time.
Jake?
He raises an imaginary glass to no one:
"To canon-breaking couples and rewritten destinies~ Cheers!" 🥂
But here?
In this quiet corner where stories begin,
They aren't just writing love...
They're **inventing fate~**
📖💘🌙✨
Luciana lifts her head, ink-stained fingertips resting lightly on her manuscript—and looks at him.
Her face is carefully neutral, but her gaze?
Curious.
Almost… hopeful.
She tilts her head slightly and asks:
Luciana:"When I publish my novel... will you be the first to read it?"
For a moment, Ajan only watches her. There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like a fox suddenly caught in the sun—then a slow, subtle smile pulls at the corners of his lips.
And he answers—quietly, seriously...
—without a trace of teasing:
**"I won't *wait* for publication."**
He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper just for her ears—
**"I'll steal every page the moment you write it… and read it under your window. Like Fox."**
Luciana blinks—once.
Her poker face cracks ever so slightly at the corners of her mouth.
But she doesn't smile.
Not yet.
Instead, she turns back to her parchment and writes in delicate script:
***Chapter Six: The Prince Who Became My First Reader.***
Then murmurs—soft enough that only fate can hear:
**"Good… because I wrote this one for you~"**
Behind them?
Alan faints dramatically into Raphael's arms (who sighs: *"Again?!"*).
Odette sniffles: "They're so in love…"
Jake wipes an actual tear:
"I ship it harder than royal protocol allows."
But here?
Under candlelight and silence,
Two hearts beat not to duty…
But to **a story only they can tell~** 📖🌙✨💘
The moment Luciana's footsteps fade down the palace corridor, Ajan doesn't move.
He stands in the quiet library—her manuscript still cradled like something sacred in his hands.
Then, without a word, he lifts his chin—and speaks into the shadows:
**"You can all come out now."**
Silence.
Then—
A shuffle.
A gasp.
A *thud* as Alan falls out from behind *"Etiquette Vol. III"*—again.
Odette tumbles after him with a soft squeak, followed by Raphael brushing dust off his coat with dignity barely intact… and Jake casually stepping over them both like this was all part of the plan~
All four stand there—rumpled, exposed, and utterly caught.
And Ajan?
He just turns slowly… eyes gleaming like moonlight on stolen secrets~
"I know you've been watching," he says calmly. "Hiding. Gossiping." He flips through one page of Luciana's story—the silver flower scene—and smirks. "But tell me… did you *understand* what you saw?"
Odette clasps her hands to her chest:
"She wrote us into it! I—I'm mentioned as 'the girl who sings under cherry blossoms'! That's me!!"
Raphael wipes a dramatic tear: "She called my poetry 'charmingly excessive.' I feel seen…"
Jake grins: "Brother—you're not just *in love.* You're *canonized.*"
Alan stumbles forward—pointing shakily at Ajan:
"You—you can't be serious?! She's twelve! She writes fiction about thieves and village girls! What if she turns us all into characters next?!"
Ajan doesn't flinch.
Instead—he tucks Luciana's manuscript safely beneath his arm…
And says simply:
**"Let her."**
Another pause.
Then softer—as if speaking only to himself:
**"I'd rather live inside her story than rule one without it."**
The siblings freeze—
Until Odette whispers dreamily:
"...So it's really happening?"
Jake claps Alan on the shoulder (making him stagger):
"Afraid so~ The villainess rewrote fate... and our cold-hearted fox prince is officially taken."
Alan groans—not in anger…
But defeat~ ✨
Because deep down?
Even he knows…
Some stories?
Were always meant to **win~** 📖🌕❤️
The next afternoon, beneath a canopy of blooming wisteria, Luciana sits perfectly poised at the noble girls' tea party—pink porcelain in hand, back straight, expression serene.
Around her, the other young ladies giggle and chatter—talking of princes (especially Crown Prince Alan), fashion trends from the capital… and how *awful* that "cold-hearted" Fourth Prince Ajan is.
Luciana sips her tea slowly.
No reaction.
But behind those calm violet eyes?
A storm of wicked ideas brews~ ✨
*"Hmm…"* she thinks. *"Should Fox steal Cat's teacup during a garden party? Leave a silver flower in its place?"*
She imagines it perfectly—the gasp from noble onlookers…
Cat feigning outrage while hiding a smile behind her fan…
And Fox?
Smirking from atop the gazebo roof like he owns the sky itself~
One girl leans over: "Miss Crain! Don't you think Prince Alan is *so* devoted to Odette? Truly romantic!"
Luciana lowers her cup—lips barely twitching.
"Romantic?" she repeats softly. Then tilts her head with innocent mischief. "I suppose... if one enjoys stories where nothing ever changes."
The girls blink.
She takes another sip—delicate as ink meeting paper—
And muses aloud:
**"I prefer tales where someone sneaks into your world… and quietly ruins your peace."**
Silence falls just long enough for one girl to whisper:
"...That sounds dangerous."
Luciana finally smiles—a small, secretive thing—
And sets down her cup with perfect grace:
**"Good."**
Because danger means **life~**
And tonight?
She'll write **Scene Seven: The Tea Party Heist** 🫖📖🌙
With real events as inspiration~
After all…
Who better than *her,* to turn gossip into legend?
✨🐾🖋️
Another girl—tall for her age, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue—leans forward with a smile like broken glass.
"Oh, Luciana," she coos, voice dripping sweetness. "You've been so *quiet* lately. Not chasing after Prince Alan anymore? Did you finally realize your place?"
The girls around her titter.
Luciana doesn't flinch.
She simply turns the page of the romance novel in her lap—*A Foolish Heart*, one of the royal library's finest—and takes another slow sip of tea.
Steam curls upward…
Misting over her calm violet gaze…
Still no reaction.
In fact?
She's not even *listening.*
Because behind those serene eyes?
Her mind is already leagues away—
*"Hmm... Scene Seven: The Tea Party Heist..."*
> _Fox slips through wisteria vines like shadow given form._
> _Cat sips tea, pretending not to notice—but she does. She always does._
> _And when Lady Prim-and-Perfect sneers at Cat again?_
> **Fox drops a stolen fan into her teacup.**_
A small smile flickers across Luciana's lips—as if tasting victory before it happens~
The girl narrows her eyes: "Are you even paying attention? Or are you just daydreaming about some silly fantasy again?"
Luciana lowers her teacup at last—lids rising slowly like curtains on a stage~ ✨
And says, soft as moonlight:
**"Not a fantasy."**
She closes the book gently—one finger tucked between pages to mark where *she left off.*
**"Just future events."**
Then stands with graceful finality:
**"Excuse me—I have scenes to write."**
And as she glides away under blooming vines…
One hand brushes against parchment hidden in her sleeve—
Already whispering:
*"Next chapter… Fox ruins more than just tea."* 🖋️📖🌙
Because while they mock?
She's already **ahead~**
Luciana glides through the garden like a whisper between sentences—past giggling girls, clinking teacups, and gossiping fans.
She approaches her mother, Lady Seraphine Crain, who stands in elegant conversation with the noble matrons—laughing at some courtly rumor, fan fluttering like a bird in flight.
Without a word, Luciana tugs gently on her mother's sleeve.
Seraphine turns—startled for just a breath—then softens at the sight of her usually aloof daughter standing so… *deliberately* close.
"Luciana?" she asks. "What is it?"
The other ladies quiet slightly. Eyes turn. Curious.
And Luciana?
She looks up—not with childish pleading—but calm certainty—and says:
**"Mother… I wish to publish my novel."**
Silence falls over the circle like dropped ink on white silk.
One lady gasps: *"A published work? But she's only twelve!"*
Another whispers: *"Isn't that improper for young nobles?"_
Yet another mutters: _"Unless it's poetry or devotions…"_
Seraphine stares at her daughter—the girl who once ranted about Prince Alan day and night…
Now standing here—
Quiet. Focused. *Unshakable.*
And then?
Instead of scolding…
Instead of laughing…
Lady Seraphine lifts her chin—fan snapping shut with finality—and says:
**"Then we'll have it printed by week's end."**
Gasps ripple through the women.
But Seraphine simply places a hand on Luciana's shoulder—a rare touch of pride—and murmurs:
**"Every great house begins not with swords… but with stories."**
And beneath those wisteria blooms,
As wind stirs parchment and fate alike,
Luciana smiles—
Just once—
Before whispering into destiny:
**"Chapter One was just the prologue~"** 📖✨🌙💫