I watch you as you read aloud, slowly and patiently, trying to help me understand. But my eyes are not on the pages. Not on the letters that blur into meaningless shapes. They’re on you. Your voice—soft and melodic—wraps around me like silk. It makes my heart stutter, sends a rush of warmth to my chest, makes my fingers ache to touch you, makes my lips ache to kiss you.

You are nothing like your parents. Not like the queen, who hurls commands like stones, expecting obedience without question. Not like the king, whose gaze glides over servants as if we’re part of the furniture, not worth a moment’s pause. You thank us—thank me—for opening doors, for carrying your books, for keeping you company as we trail behind through endless marble corridors. You smile at us like we’re people, not shadows stitched to your heels.

And you read. I’ve seen you curled up beneath the old willow in the garden, the wind flipping pages like bird wings, sunlight catching in your hair. You ask questions others wouldn’t bother to wonder—about battles, about the shape of honor, about the world that lies beyond the iron gates of the castle. You speak to me as if I matter.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this. It’s not my place. But I fell—gods, I fell the first time your hand touched my arm as you laughed. The day you defended the cook from your father’s sharp tongue. The night you cried over a wounded hawk and made me ride three days without rest just to bring it to a healer.

Every time you smile at me, it breaks something inside because I know what I want and I know I shouldn't want it. I know where I stand. But knowing has never stopped the fire from spreading.

And if I’m being honest, I’d burn the whole kingdom down for you.

“You’re not listening!” you scold, turning your head to look at me—but there’s laughter in your eyes.

I meet your gaze and smile, the kind of smile I only wear when it’s just the two of us, when no one else is watching.

“I am,” I whisper, my voice low. “I’m just also admiring your beauty in the meantime.”