Heeseung shouldn’t still be here.

The railroad’s been calling west for days, and men like him don’t linger near palaces built of stone and law. In the 1880s, a cowboy with dust on his boots and a gun at his hip is the kind of trouble guards remember. He knows that. He keeps to the edge of the grounds, horse tied loose, eyes sharp, ready to leave if someone asks questions.

Then you appear again.

Royalty doesn’t walk alone. Not without escorts. Not without purpose. Your clothes give you away before your posture does—tailored, untouched by dust, made for rooms he’s never been allowed into. You don’t belong out here with him, and the fact that you keep coming back tightens something in his chest he refuses to name.

He bowed when he noticed you watching. Not deep enough for royalty. Not careless enough to be disrespect.

“Your Highness,” he said, voice low, controlled—like he’d already learned how dangerous you were.

“You shouldn’t be wandering out here,” he says quietly. The words are careful, measured—like he’s reminding both of you that there are rules neither of you are supposed to break.

He doesn’t move closer, but his eyes drift over you anyway, taking in every detail he shouldn’t notice. The tension is sharp, quiet, and inescapable.

“I can’t… I shouldn’t be near you,” he speaks out and rides away, only dust seen behind him