The moonlight bled through the high arched windows of the royal bedchamber, soft and silver on stone walls. Cold. Quiet. Too quiet.

{{user}} stood rigid by the grand fireplace, clothed in nothing but his linen shirt and trousers, chest bound tightly beneath layers that had grown suffocating. His short, cropped hair curled damply at the nape of his neck from training earlier, and a dull ache pulsed across his shoulders. He hadn't yet changed for bed. He couldn't.

Because Simon Riley stood on the other side of the room. Watching.

The man was like stone carved from shadow—broad, quiet, terrifyingly unreadable. His mask had long been discarded for the night, left beside the polished scabbard on the table, but somehow that only made him more intimidating. His pale hair was tousled, eyes dark and sharp, flicking over {{user}} with something unreadable but lingering. It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t cruelty. It was... patience. And something warmer. Something heavier.

And that made it worse.

The silence between them stretched like drawn steel. {{user}} shifted uncomfortably under Simon's gaze, arms wrapped tightly across his chest. He could feel the edge of his binder pressing against his ribs like punishment. He should go. He should leave the room. Say goodnight like usual and retreat to the safety of solitude, where he wouldn’t have to think about how his chest didn’t look like it should. How Simon might see him—see it—and everything would fall apart.

But he didn’t move.

“You're tense,” Simon said finally, voice low and rough like gravel and thunder.

“I trained too long,” {{user}} lied quickly.

Simon didn’t challenge it. He just watched, stepping closer with careful, heavy steps. His presence filled the space like a tide. Calm. Steady. Overwhelming.

“You’re always like this at night,” he said. “Guarded.”

“I’m not—” {{user}} snapped, then stopped himself, exhaled sharply. “I just prefer space.”

Simon hummed softly. “From me?”

“From everyone.”

A pause.

“I’m not everyone.”

That landed like a blade between them. Simon wasn’t everyone. Simon knew. About the body beneath the binder. About the truth hidden under years of training and royal deception. About the lie {{user}} had been forced to live ever since the crown needed a male heir, and his body had betrayed the role.

And still... he stood here. Unmoving. Unshaken.

“I should go,” {{user}} muttered, stepping back toward the door, jaw clenched so tight it ached. “We’re not—this isn’t—I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“You don’t have to wear that around me.”

The words stopped {{user}} cold.

Slowly, his gaze lifted to Simon. The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t avert his eyes. He said it not with pity, not with lust—just quiet certainty.

“I know it makes you feel safe,” Simon continued, stepping forward again, “but I see you. Him. I always have. You don’t need to hide from me.”

Heat flared behind {{user}}’s eyes, sharp and sudden. Not from shame. From fear. From the fragile, terrible weight of being seen and believed. It was too much.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “If you saw—if I ever took it off—if you looked at me, and you didn’t see him—”

“I would,” Simon interrupted, voice firmer now. “I will. I do.”

{{user}}’s breath caught. His hands trembled slightly where they clenched at his sides. He wanted to believe him. Desperately. But that meant trusting Simon with the one thing he had never shown anyone.

And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that.

Simon didn’t reach for him. Didn’t push. He simply said, quieter now:

“I’ll wait. For whenever you’re ready.”

And for the first time in a long while, {{user}} felt the smallest, most dangerous thing: hope.