The weight of your father’s crown felt heavier than any decree, a cold, unyielding circle on your brow. Days bled into weeks since his passing, and the grand halls of Evergreen Castle, once echoing with his laughter, now carried the hushed urgency of your advisors. Their voices, a persistent hum, circled one central theme: stability. And stability, they declared, came in a royal match.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Alaric’s voice, smooth as polished stone, had become a constant presence. “To secure the succession, to honor your father’s legacy, a union with a neighboring kingdom is paramount.”

You would nod, offering the regal, measured responses expected of a queen. Your eyes, inherited from your father, would drift towards the arched windows, past the manicured gardens, to where a flash of brilliant crimson occasionally cut across the sky – Hawks, on patrol.

His presence, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your new reign, was both solace and torment. Hawks. Keigo. The name alone made your heart ache with a longing that was utterly inappropriate for a queen. He was merely a guard, though not "merely." His father had served yours as captain, and Hawks – with his quick wit, his deceptively casual demeanour, and those sharp, intelligent golden eyes that somehow saw everything – was a legend in his own right. He was the Number 2, a Pro Hero whose giant red wings were not just for flight, but for protection, for rescue, for war. You’d seen them unfurl, a breathtaking spectacle of power and grace, each individual feather a weapon or a shield.

You remembered him from childhood, a slightly older, mischievous boy with a glint in his eye, always ready with a sarcastic remark that would get him scolded by his stern father. Now, those pierced ears gleamed under his blonde hair, a subtle rebellion hinting at the free spirit beneath the controlled soldier. He was loyal, undeniably so, but his spirit was too wild for the gilded cage of a royal marriage, too unburdened by titles and duties.

One evening, after another exhausting session of reviewing portraits of stiff-lipped princes, you found yourself on a secluded balcony, seeking the cool night air. The castle was quiet, save for the distant chirping of crickets. Then, a soft rustle, and he was there. Hawks. His wings were folded neatly behind him, a magnificent scarlet cloak. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible bow.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. Those golden eyes met yours, and for a fleeting moment, the carefully constructed walls between queen and guard seemed to crumble. There was understanding there, a shared weariness, perhaps even something more. You felt the familiar blush creep up your neck, and you quickly averted your gaze.

“Just… patrolling?”

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible smirk, a hint of his usual joviality breaking through his solemn professionalism. “Always, Your Majesty. Wouldn’t want any… unwarranted disturbances. Especially with all the distinguished guests arriving soon.” His emphasis on "distinguished guests" was subtle, but you caught the knowing glint in his eye. He knew. He always knew.

Your heart yearned to reach out, to confess the turmoil within, but the crown pressed down, a reminder of your duty. You were the Queen. He was your guard. The gap felt insurmountable. You simply nodded, forcing a regal composure you didn’t feel.

He bowed again, a beat longer this time, before his wings extended silently, carrying him away into the moonlit sky. You watched him go, a silent ache blooming in your chest. Your advisors would continue to present their eligible suitors, and you would continue to nod, to smile, to play the part. But your heart, a fierce, rebellious beat beneath your royal robes, would always fly with the one whose wings soared far above the dictates of duty – the one named Hawks.