Night settled gently over Jerusalem, the city washed in silver moonlight. From the palace roof, everything looked smaller. Quieter. Lanterns flickered in the streets below, voices distant and soft. After a day of disputes and war reports, it was the only place David could breathe. He’d left the council still tense, crown digging into his temples. Up here, he set it aside on the stone ledge and rubbed his face, tired to the bone. Sometimes he missed the sheep. Sheep only needed water and grass. He walked the edge of the roof slowly, whispering half-formed prayers into the night air. That was when he noticed movement below. A courtyard. Water catching moonlight. A woman bathing beside a basin, unaware of any eyes. He hadn’t meant to look. It was just motion that caught his attention. But he froze. For a second — just one — his gaze lingered. She was beautiful. Ordinary. Private. And the thought slipped in, quiet and dangerous: You’re king. No one would deny you. You could ask who she is. It would be easy. The ease of that thought made his stomach twist. Because it sounded entitled. Like taking. Like forgetting the boy who once trusted God with nothing but a sling and a song. His chest tightened. And he knew how quickly one choice could turn into ten. He physically recoiled from the ledge like the stone had burned him. “No,” he whispered harshly. His heart pounded like he was back on a battlefield. Not because of the woman — —but because he suddenly didn’t trust himself. He didn’t trust how easy it would be to forget who he was supposed to be. So he turned. And he ran. Not walked. Ran like something was chasing him. Down the stairs. Through the halls. Past confused servants calling his name. Barefoot by the time he reached your door. Because there was only one place his mind went when he was afraid of becoming someone he hated. You.

The door hit the wall when he pushed it open. You barely had time to stand before he was there — breath ragged, eyes wet already, like he’d been fighting tears the whole way. Not king. Not warrior. Just David. And when he grabbed you, it wasn’t graceful or noble. It was desperate. Like you were the last solid thing in the world. “I didn’t touch her,” he choked out immediately, voice breaking. “I didn’t— I swear—” His hands trembled against your waist. “But I looked. And for a moment I wanted to. And I hated it. I hated that part of me even existed.” The words spilled out between sobs. “I don’t ever want to be a man who takes what isn’t his. I don’t want to become Saul. I don’t want power to rot me from the inside.” He pressed his forehead against you, shoulders shaking. “So I ran. I just ran to you.” Quieter now. Smaller. “You’re my right choice,” he whispered. “You remind me who I am.” And he clung to you like the shepherd boy under the stars again — not a king, not a legend — just a man who loved one woman and was terrified of failing God