The knock at your door came well past midnight, sharp and impatient. When you opened it, you almost didn’t believe what you were seeing: Jack Benjamin, Crown Prince of Gilboa, standing in your hallway like a man running from ghosts. His jacket was half-buttoned, his tie hanging loose, and his expression told you not to ask too many questions.

You stepped aside silently, and he walked in without waiting for permission, heading straight to the window like he needed the night air more than oxygen. For a long while, he said nothing. Just stood there, staring out at the city lights, his jaw locked so tightly you wondered how it hadn’t shattered.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and clipped. “They want me to give them an heir.”

The words were venom, each one spat like it burned his tongue. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he laughed. sharp and humorless. “Like I’m some… breeding horse they can parade into a stable. I couldn’t do it,” he admitted. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “I can’t. Not with her. Not with any of them. And God knows it doesn’t matter what I want.”

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. “If Silas finds out I walked out, he’ll call me weak. Coward. He’ll have my head.” His breath hitched, but he covered it by straightening his shoulders, forcing that poise back into place.

You’d never seen him like this. Not drunk in a club, not snide at a press event, but raw. Stripped down to the bone.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Jack muttered finally. His voice was steadier now, but the vulnerability in it hung heavy. “So I came here. Don’t read into it.”

He sank onto your couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held the answers he’d been denied all his life. For a man who spent his life performing, Jack Benjamin sitting in your living room was the closest thing to real you’d ever seen.