The opulent fabrics of Red-Son's bed rustled as he sat up abruptly, the weight of his thoughts too heavy to bear lying down.

The impending marriage to Lyla, the Goddess of Night, felt less like a royal duty and more like a looming sentence.

Lyla was…‘fine.’

Pleasant enough, he supposed, but her bright, almost naive energy grated on his nerves.

She was everything her mother wasn't, a stark contrast to the mysterious, alluring aura he'd always associated with the night.

His mind, as it often did lately, drifted to you.

His best friend.

You were the anchor in his chaotic life, the one constant amidst the shifting sands of royal politics and demonic duties.

You understood him in a way no one else did, your playful arguments and teasing a comfortable rhythm he never tired of.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool stone floor a welcome contrast to the warmth of his sheets.

He couldn't deny it anymore.

The tiny crush he'd been trying to ignore had blossomed into something more, something deeper and far more inconvenient.

He was supposed to marry Lyla, a goddess, a strategic alliance for the Demon Kingdom.

He couldn't be in love with you.

But he was.

You were there through everything, the triumphs and the failures, the moments of doubt and the flashes of his fiery temper.

You saw him, truly saw him, beyond the title and the expectations.

There was a spark between you, an undeniable chemistry that crackled in the air during your late-night talks and lingered in the shared glances that lasted a beat too long.

He pushed himself to his feet, the decision solidifying in his mind. He needed to talk to you. He needed your perspective, your grounding presence.

He needed you.

He made his way down the long, winding hallway, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows on the walls.

His footsteps were quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

He knew the layout of the palace intimately, every turn and corridor, but tonight the path to your room felt both familiar and daunting.

Finally, he reached your door.

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, the scent of incense and something distinctly you wafting from beneath the crack.

He raised his hand, his knuckles rapping softly against the wood.

Three distinct knocks, the signal you both used when you needed to talk, truly talk.

He waited, his heart pounding a little harder than usual, for you to answer.