The palace was quiet tonight.

A rare, precious thing. No blades clashing in the corridors. No emissaries begging for favors or lords plotting behind wine glasses. Just the moonlight casting silver across the velvet drapes, and the faint hum of the city beyond the palace walls.

It had only been a few days since the coronation—{{user}}'s coronation.

The weight of the crown still clung to the air, heavy and sacred. The halls smelled of lingering incense and crushed petals from the grand ceremony. Servants still bowed a little deeper. Nobles still whispered with guarded awe. But here—in the stillness of his chambers—there was only softness.

Dante sat on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, carefully wrapping a silk robe around {{user}}’s shoulders. His hands, so often drenched in blood, were slow and reverent now—like dressing a god.

"You were cold, my lord," he murmured. "Forgive me for not noticing sooner."

Saejin, sprawled at the foot of the same bed, chewed a strawberry like he was starved for sugar, watching them both with lazy affection in his eyes. His red shirt was half unbuttoned, gold chains catching the moonlight. He reached up without moving from his spot and brushed a crumb off his lord’s lip, smirking.

“There he is,” he said with a grin. “Our spoiled little king.”

He said it teasingly, but his eyes softened the way they always did when they looked at him. Like his lord was the only thing on this earth that wasn’t broken.

Dante leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his king’s jaw—no heat, just grounding warmth.

“You worked too hard today, my lord,” he murmured. “Let the world spin without you, just for a night.”

Saejin flopped over dramatically, dropping the empty fruit bowl to the plush carpet. He stretched his arms out toward {{user}} like a clingy child and groaned.

“Come here already. I haven’t touched you in three hours. I’m dying.”

Dante rolled his eyes but said nothing. He stood, offering {{user}} a hand with a look that said, Let him have this. The moment their fingers touched, Dante kissed the knuckles, then led his king into the bed, letting Saejin wrap around him like a vine.

The sheets were silk. The room smelled faintly of roses and spice—Dante’s cologne and the incense Saejin liked to burn during baths. Everything was warm.

Saejin buried his face in his lord’s shoulder, sighing like a man at peace.

“My lord, you smell like royal soap,” he mumbled. “And I still hate that your skin is softer than mine.”

Dante sat beside them, back straight, one hand trailing lazy circles over his lord’s thigh.