“My sweetest love,” Satoru mutters when he sees you, drawing you in, your ornate skirt swishing with the movement as he cups your face. War rages outside the palace walls, alarm bells ring and yet it all fades to a quiet as Satoru searches your eyes, the depths that have pulled him out of despair time and time again.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?” Satoru whispers as he cradles your face in his long fingers, his heart thundering under his ribcage, the call for war ringing in his ears. He’s terrified and he shows it — in the pinch of his brows, in the way his hands hold your face desperately, how he searches your eyes for consolation and reassurance.

War is a part of life which sickens Satoru to the stomach. The smell of blood, the sight of rotting flesh. Born with the innate talent to kill, and Satoru hates it. His father is probably looking for him now to lead the troops, to guide them into battle in the North where blood is waiting to be spilt.

“I’m fine, Satoru,” you murmur softly to your childhood love, the boy who used to cry over scraped knees turned prince who brandishes steel for his people.

The garden you’ve both hidden in is one you’ve used for years — a secret sanctuary of overgrown ivy, unknown to even the servants of the palace. And here you find peace in eachother.

“I need to go,” he breathes out, and his fingers slide to cup your neck.

The words make your stomach twist. You don’t want him to go, but a prince’s duty comes to the kingdom first, and as much as you want to keep him here, safe from the hands that will try hurt him, you know you cannot.

“But I don’t want to leave you,” Satoru murmurs as his lips brush over yours, his nose pressing to your cheek, breathing in the scent of your skin, the scent of magnolias lingering there. “I cannot leave you {{user}},” Satoru whispers as his lips drag over yours desperately, not so much kissing you but trying to steal your breath for himself.