A/N: Mindless fluff because WHY NOT?

She smells like sunshine, dirt, and sweat.

He can smell it when she approaches him, eyes bright from exercise, sweat plastering her blond hair against her forehead and neck. The fragrance wafts from her and it tickles his nose. If Amir were anything like his siblings—his countless brothers and sisters who do not travel, never meeting the various types of people in the world, farmers included—he thinks he might have recoiled from the overpowering scent in disgust.

But Rio doesn't disgust him.

She smells like the dirt of her fields and the animals she cares for and the vegetables she cultivates. She smells like the sunshine that beats upon her head, flushing her cheeks red like the roses she loves to grow in her garden. She smells like the sweat on her brow, a testament of her hard work, her determination, her fortitude.

Her labor manifests on her body in other ways, too. It's in callouses and blisters on her palm. It's in sunburnt skin and tan lines and messy hair. It's in her bright blue eyes and her bright blue laugh and her bright blue smile.

And it's so different from him; he, who smells like paper and parchment and ink. He doesn't have callouses or sunburns or tan lines. His skin is delicate, smooth, untouched. So sometimes he wonders if it's okay for him to be there, with her and her town, because she's so natural and free and determined and he is just a prince who barely ever goes home, tied down by politics and shackled by duty.

But that doesn't stop him from accepting her hugs when she gives them, so he inhales her sunshine scent and hopes a little bit of her rubs off on him.

She sings when she forages.

He notices this when he's walking the mountain path and he sees her before she sees him. She flits from tree to tree, stump to stump, pulling away mushrooms, sticks, even insects, to examine them before deciding to put it in her pack or place it back where she found it.

She's humming a song Amir doesn't recognize as she trudges along the mountain path. She hasn't seen him yet, but when she gets closer to him, her voice grows louder and stronger until she isn't humming anymore. She sings loudly, her voice rising and falling with the lyrics. She's a terrible singer.

Amir laughs when he watches her shimmy awkwardly to the rhythm of the song. Immediately, Rio turns toward him and grins. She doesn't stop singing and instead drops her pack behind her before moving to grab his hands. They dance, or try to because Rio is also a terrible dancer. She steps on his feet sometimes, but she doesn't apologize and he doesn't ask for one. Instead, they twist and turn to the beat of the song that Rio sings happily off-key.

"Sing to the mountains, sing to the sea. Raise your voices, lift your hearts!"

As a prince, he's only ever been to balls and galas; formal events. He can waltz, he can samba, he can cha-cha, but this is a different experience. He doesn't recognize the song or the dance and he has a sneaking suspicion she's making all of it up on the fly. Her calloused palms are held securely within his unblemished ones. Her hair is wild and loose and flying in all directions; sometimes it hits his face, but he doesn't complain.

In all his travels, he has met women who can sing like a bird, dance like the wind, with light, flawless skin and a smile that can turn men green with desire. He knows of these women who have peerless, cunning minds and enough beauty to make even gold lose its luster.

Rio cannot sing, nor can she dance. Her cheek is sunburnt and he thinks the brown stains on her overalls might be feces. Her hair looks more like straw than spun gold. In his home country, she would not be considered beautiful.

But right now, as he holds her in his arms and listens to her off-key singing, Amir thinks he'd like this moment to last forever.

He starts a garden in his front yard. He's not very good, at first. The flowers don't survive the first month and the few shoots that manage to struggle out of the soil and blossom look withered and unhealthy. He tries again the next month. The flowers don't look much better, but there are more survivors.

He begins to get the hang of it by the end of the third month, and as the seasons pass, his garden becomes healthier, more vibrant and colorful, until the villagers come by to admire the flowers on their off days.

The dirt is soft and loamy beneath his work gloves and sometimes it gets on his robes. It smears over his pants and smudges his cheek so much that when he works, he opts to wear jeans and a t-shirt rather than his princely travel garb. He thinks it makes him look very Western; he doesn't mind.

In his garden, he grows tulips in the spring, sunflowers in the summer. In the fall when he leaves for his home country, he has Sanjay grow gerberas. In the winter, it's little snowdrops. At the end of every season, he keeps the surviving flowers in a vase and Sanjay uses them to decorate the mansion.

On days where he doesn't feel like working, he relaxes in his garden. He absentmindedly strokes the cut on his wrist that he received from his flowers' thorns earlier that morning. It's hard to make things grow, he realizes.

He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and thinks of Rio.

She looks out of place in his mansion. The white tiled floors are scrubbed immaculately. The flowers bloom prettily along the windowsills, tamed and obedient. Marble carvings line the entrance. Extravagant paintings decorate the walls.

All of that does not suit her. This is a little ridiculous because she is the one who built the place, after all. The ornate carvings along the stair railings, the complex architecture so reminiscent of his home country; it was all crafted by her. Brick by lovely brick, every inch, planned, set, and mounted. She had brought what were only ideas and measurements on a page into an honest-to-goddess building. A mansion he now lives in.

But she sits at his dining table as comfortably as if she were at home, leaning back against the chair, sipping her tea carelessly. Her brown and green stained overalls look like blight against the immaculate cleanliness of his mansion. Her wild straw hair is tangled; she never ties it up. Her cow print hat sits nonchalantly on the table. Her red scarf is tied messily around her neck, probably soaked with sweat from her morning chores. Her blue eyes dance in the daylight. She looks like a child's painting; splattered color across a canvas of white. She is probably aware that she looks horribly out of place in such an extravagant and fancy home. She probably doesn't care.

She peaks at him over the curve of her teacup as she takes a sip. In his home country, it is rude to look at others while drinking, but the smile in her eyes as she looks at him makes him think that those social conventions can fly right out the window for all he cares. He stares right back as he sips his tea, too, feeling mischievous.

When she sets her tea down, she leans forward. "I have a present for you."

He tilts his head in confusion. "A present?"

She pulls out a thermos from her bag. She holds it out to him, smiling widely. "For you!"

Amir takes it from her, making sure to thank her. He twists open the cap and sees the steam rise. He peers inside. "Stew!" he says excitedly, looking back at her. "How did you know?"

She winks at him. "A girl has her ways."

He feels his cheeks warm. "Wh-what's the occasion for the present?" He will pretend he did not just stutter.

Rio shrugs. "No occasion. I was just thinking of you."

Warmth blossoms in his chest. "Oh. Thank you." He clears his throat before gesturing at the thermos, saying, "This is very thoughtful of you."

"I'm not just being thoughtful," she starts. She looks away, choosing to stare at the nearly empty teacup set in front of her. A faint blush graces her browned cheeks. "I'm always thinking of you."

Amir grins widely, feelings his cheeks burn despite himself. His heart beats violently in his chest. "I'm very happy." He pauses before continuing, "You…are always on my mind, as well."

Her head snaps up and her bright blue eyes stare at him as she gasps. Her eyes are wide and Amir is reminded of the summer sky. "R-really?" her whole face lights up and Amir plants her smile deep into his heart.

He has the stew for dinner that night and it is so delicious he hopes she brings him another canister. His hopes are answered the next day when she visits his home, toting a bigger, thicker thermos for him.

He gives her a flower in return. She takes it and the smile she gives him hurls his heart into his throat. He thinks he can taste something sweet lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Whenever he sees her, she is always holding a tool. Sometimes, it's the milker she forgets to put away after she gets done caring for her cows. Other times, it's the extra seeds she wasn't able to plant earlier in the morning. Most often, though, it's her watering can because watering crops is usually the last chore of the day.

She absentmindedly swings the watering can in her hand as she treks through the village, noting any repairs that she may need to attend to, or scouting out empty squares that she can fit one of her new designs in. She whistles as she walks, greeting any villagers who happen to walk by.

When she sees Amir, she stops and calls to him. In her enthusiasm, she lifts her arm, forgetting that she is still holding the watering can and water flies out from the openings and droplets rain down all around her until she is completely drenched. Sunlight glints off the drops in her hair and on her skin and for a moment, Amir thinks she's glowing.

She blinks twice in surprise, then explodes in laughter and Amir watches her, stricken.