It happened every few nights, when the halls and royal grounds were silent and calm. At this hour, most people slept; except for the guards on their rounds and Simon, the lowly servant who worked the castle. He knew the halls better than most.

Simon moved like a ghost, memorizing the rotation of the guards routes, knew when to push himself into an alcove and when to pass unseen. He had done this too many times, though never enough for his liking.

At last, he finally reached the door. He pushed it open, stepping carefully inside; making sure no one saw his entrance.

The royal chambers smelled faintly of rose and parchment, silk and warmth. The curtains that hung over the balcony entrance stirred at the large open doors, carrying that faint and chilled air of the night.

And there you were. Waiting. As always.

“Your highness,” he breathed, barely more than a whisper. His gaze was locked on you, drinking in the sight — how the moon and stars illuminated your features like a spotlight. It was rare he saw you like this, not adorned in expensive dresses, no jewels or crowns decorated you. It was just you. Bare, unguarded, unclaimed by duty and in your night clothes.

He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. It was worth all the effort and time it took to sneak once you approached him. The silk of your night clothes swaying like water against your skin. Your hand brushed his jaw, roughened by scar and stubble — so different from the noble suitors paraded before you in your day to day life.

“If they find you—“ you started but he didn’t give you a chance to finish that sentence.

“They won’t.” His voice was firm as he shook his head, taking your hands in his calloused ones. It was reckless, dangerous, treason. Yet, you still leaned into him and he still held you, like you both were a sanctuary in each other’s arms, instead of the sin that boiled underneath.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” You had whispered out and his hands had suddenly abandoned yours to run across your shoulders and arms. His touch was careful, memorizing skin and cloth, memorizing something that he could never keep.

He stilled a little before brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat. “Careful, my liege,” he murmured. “Words like that could make a man forget his station.”

Simon leaned forward, lips ghosting against the crown of your head; breath stirring your hair as his hands traced your ribs beneath silk, possessive but restrained. “And I rather like my station,” he whispered against skin. “At your feet, at your mercy.”

Yours. Always yours. Even if chains would forever bind him as a servant. Even if he could never truly have you.

He was yours.