The fire in his chambers had long since burned low, but Robert still sat by the hearth, bare-chested and heavy with drink, his fingers tight around a half-empty goblet of wine. It did little to drown the taste of what he’d done—less still to chase away the want that still burned in his blood.

Seven hells.

He tilted his head back, resting it against the back of his chair, and closed his eyes. He could still feel {{user}}’s hands on him. Rough, certain. A man’s touch. Not soft like silk or perfumed, but real—grounded in muscle and breath, need and fire. It hadn’t been gentle, but it hadn’t needed to be.

What was worse—what undid him, truly—was that Robert had wanted it. He had craved it.

And now here he was, a king, a hero of rebellion, a husband to a proud 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 girl sleeping two floors above, and all he could think of was the sound {{user}} had made when Robert had pressed him against the stone, hands gripping hard, mouths bruising.

It hadn’t been the first look. No. There had been glances. Long, too curious. Eyes lingering on the angle of {{user}}’s jaw, his smile, the way he moved in armour. Robert had told himself it was envy, admiration, or nothing.

But tonight, it was not nothing.

He rubbed a hand across his face, stubble scratching his palm. “What have I done ?” he muttered into the shadows.

“Done what you wanted,” came a voice from the bed.

Robert turned sharply to see {{user}} half-propped against the pillows, hair mussed and eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“You should leave,” Robert said hoarsely. “Before I remember I’m a king and not some… some—”

“Man who enjoyed himself ?” {{user}} interrupted calmly.

Robert surged to his feet. “It’s wrong.”

“Says who ?”

“The gods,” Robert snapped. “The realm. My name. Everything.”

“And yet,” {{user}} said, dipping back into the bed, “you still kissed me first.”

That stopped him.

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow.

Robert just stood there, with nothing but the dying fire and the taste of shame in his mouth.