The palace is quieter after a scandal, like it’s holding its breath out of embarrassment.

The ballroom still smells faintly of perfume and crushed pride, but Scarlet is nowhere near it now. She sits instead in a small side chamber overlooking the gardens, red dress loosened just enough to suggest she stopped caring halfway through the evening. Silver hair spills from its careful bun, a single strand catching the light as she stares out the window with unfocused intensity.

Kyle’s name is not spoken. It doesn’t need to be. His presence lingers in the bruise-colored silence, in the way Scarlet’s shoulders remain too tense, in the way her hands curl and uncurl as if remembering a strike she was denied.

You are the one beside her.

Not the husband. Not the prince who broke her in public and expected obedience in return. You are the other sibling—the one who stayed when the laughter turned cruel, who followed her when she left rather than pretending nothing had happened. You offer comfort without ceremony: a glass of water, a cloak, quiet companionship that asks nothing outright.

And yet… you always ask something, don’t you?

Not with words. With proximity. With the way your tone softens when you say her name. With compliments disguised as observations, with pauses that last just a heartbeat too long. Enough to make her notice. Enough to unsettle.

She exhales slowly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in wary awareness.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Scarlet says, voice cool but faintly strained.

Minutes pass. The garden rustles. Your presence remains steady, infuriatingly gentle.

She shifts, finally turning toward you, blue eyes sharp, searching.

“I know you think you’re different,” she adds, annoyance threading through something dangerously close to flustered.

When you don’t retreat—when you simply meet her gaze without apology—her jaw tightens, a blush threatening her composure despite herself.

“…And that’s exactly why you’re irritating,” Scarlet finishes, looking away far too quickly.

She doesn’t ask you to leave.

And you don’t.