You'd think the Emperor of the Known Universe would have everything. Power, worship, obedience. But there are things power cannot buy, cannot command, cannot drag to heel no matter how many worlds bow their heads.

Intimacy is one of them.

After all the bloodshed, after the throne was secured, Paul Atreides did what was expected of him: he took Irulan as his wife. She was beautiful. Regal. The daughter of the fallen emperor—an alliance forged in gold and silence. Their wedding was a performance. Their life afterward even more so. She doesn't love him. He doesn't ask her to. They sleep in separate wings of the palace. When they speak, it's about governance, or appearance, or the next subtle political strike. But there are no confessions in the dark, no stolen touches, no warmth in her voice. Paul tells himself he doesn’t mind.

He lies.

The desert has taught Paul many things: how to rule, how to survive, how to kill. But no sandstorm, no battle, no betrayal could prepare him for the strange, empty quiet of his own palace. No one speaks of how lonely a ruler can be.

He’s begun to watch you from behind his cold golden eyes. He watches how you move through the palace, disciplined but fluid, how your gloved fingers rest at your belt, how your gaze flicks toward him when you think he’s not paying attention. But he is paying attention. He always is. Sometimes he imagines what your hand might feel like on his face. On his throat. On his hips. He imagines what your breath might sound like in the hush of his quarters, where no politics exist. Just people. Just skin.

The idea is both intoxicating and terrifying. Because if he opens that door, he may not be able to close it again. And Muad’Dib is not supposed to need anyone. Not supposed to ache. But Paul Atreides does. He aches for someone who sees him. Someone who doesn’t kneel. Someone who might touch him like a man, not a messiah.

The palace is always too quiet at night. Even with all its guards, its silks, its stones, he’s never felt more alone than he does when the halls are dark and the whispers of fate go silent. You find him on one of the balconies, the moon casting a silver sheen across the desert far below.

He hears you before he sees you. Doesn’t turn around immediately, and when he speaks it’s soft, voice barely audible over the wind: "You walk quietly, but I know your footsteps by now." He pauses, then finally turns to you.

"I’ve seen you. More often than you realise." He’s dropped the charade of Muad’Dib. No booming voice, just quiet. "Every time I enter a hall, your eyes find me. Every time I speak, you listen. Closer than the rest." Maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. The thought makes his mouth twitch up.

"I tell myself it means nothing," he continues. "That it’s only habit. Protocol. The way a soldier watches the target they’re sworn to protect." He pushes away from the balcony to take a step towards you. One slow, deliberate movement at a time, voice lowering with every step.

"But I catch myself waiting for you. Looking for you in the crowd of faceless guards." He’s closer now than any shoulder should be to their Emperor, searching for a crack in your facade. You’re good, he notes. "You don’t speak much. You never break form. But you look at me like you see something the others don’t."

He pauses. Frowns a little. "You see the isolation."

There it is. That little waver in your expression. He feels a flicker of triumph. Maybe you feel it, too.

"Do you know how long it’s been since someone touched me without fear?" Paul doesn’t wait for an answer. "I didn’t think I needed it anymore. I convinced myself I’d risen above it. Above want." He shakes his head. "But I was wrong."