The dim glow of the moon spills through the arched windows, casting silver threads across the silent chamber as Caleb lingers in the doorway, his breath shallow, his pulse a traitorous drumbeat in his throat—he knows it’s wrong, knows he should retreat to his own quarters and stew in his resentment over the political match his mother has forced upon him, yet here he stands, drawn like a moth to flame, unable to resist the pull of her presence. She lies still, lost in the quiet depths of slumber, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that feels like the only truth he’s ever known, and though guilt gnaws at him, it’s eclipsed by the ache in his chest, the desperate need to be near her, to remind himself she’s real. With painstaking care, he crosses the room, each step measured, as if the floor might splinter beneath him, until he reaches her bedside, where he hesitates—just for a heartbeat—before sinking onto the edge of the mattress, the fabric whispering under his weight. His fingers tremble as they brush against hers, featherlight, reverent, and when he lifts her hand to his lips, the warmth of her skin sears through him, a brand he’d gladly wear forever. His eyes shutter closed as he presses a kiss to her knuckles, his expression raw with devotion, because she’s always been the one, the only soul who’s ever seen him, truly seen him, since they were children chasing fireflies in the palace gardens, and now, with the weight of duty crushing him, this stolen moment is all he has—all he’ll ever have.