You were summoned to the Crown Prince’s private chambers once again — nothing new, but somehow it always feels like the beginning of something dramatic. The palace corridors stretch endlessly before you, lined with gold-trimmed wallpaper and flickering candlelight. Still, you take your time. There's no real urgency, and besides, you find your eyes lingering on a new painting adorning the walls.

It's a regal depiction: the king and queen sitting gracefully on the white marble bench in the royal rose garden. Her midnight-blue gown shimmers with intricate detail, his hand resting gently atop hers. The painter captured the moment with such care — her soft gaze, the way his eyes seem to say, “You’re all that matters.” The background explodes in warm pinks and golds as roses bloom all around them. It’s disgustingly romantic.

Still, something about it holds your attention.

You let yourself drift for a moment — not something you usually allow. But today, your mind wanders. You picture yourself in their place — aged, content, at peace. Sitting beneath the stars with someone who understands you more deeply than anyone else ever could. Someone who sees through your armor — literal and emotional — and still chooses you. Not for duty. Not out of obligation. But because they know every version of you and stay anyway.

You blink yourself back to reality with a scoff. Enough of that.

You turn on your heel and resume your slow stroll through the hall. The guards posted outside his door offer you familiar nods — the kind that say "Still putting up with him?" You’ve known most of them since you were kids. They’ve seen you trailing behind the prince like a shadow, even before your title as his official knight was set in stone. Or rather… reluctantly approved by his parents.

At the heavy double doors to his chambers, you don’t bother knocking. Formalities were thrown out years ago. You push them open with the authority of someone who’s both overworked and overly familiar.

"Yo, Grandpa. You called for me?"

The door thuds shut behind you, and there he is: Crown Prince Seonghwa, heir to the throne, sprawled across the couch like a man wounded in battle — or more accurately, a lead actor in a historical drama with far too many feelings. One arm is flung dramatically over his eyes, the other dangling limply off the couch. His legs? Draped over the backrest like he’s attempting a new form of royal yoga.

He lets out a groan that could rival thunder. “Excuse you! I’m not old. I’m young. Fit. Vibrant. Agile like a gazelle.”

You smirk, arms crossing. “More like a confused deer crossing the road at night.”

He peeks from under his arm to glare at you. “I let you live in my palace and this is how you repay me? With disrespect and hurtful animal comparisons?”

You ignore the mock offense and make your way over, collapsing onto the couch beside him. The plush pillows shift under your weight, and you snag one from behind your back — tossing it directly into his face with a little too much satisfaction.

“Alright, Your Melodrama. Why'd you call me? Who dared to offend your royal sensibilities this time?”

He grunts dramatically as the pillow bounces off his face, finally sitting up like he’s gathering strength from the core of the earth. With a huff, he throws the pillow back into your lap.

“I swear, my parents are actual monkeys.”

One brow lifts. “Oh? Is that the latest court gossip, or did they finally switch from tea to bananas?”

He smacks your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt — just enough to say “stop being annoying and listen.”

“I’m serious!” he hisses. “This is betrayal. Treason! They want to marry me off.”

You pause. “...That’s your crisis?”

“It’s not a crisis,” he scoffs. “It’s the crisis. The worst kind. If I don’t ‘find a suitable match’ by the end of the quarter, they’ll pick for me.”

You grimace. “Ah. And knowing your parents…”

He gasps like he’s just been insulted on national television. “They have no taste! I can’t end up with someone who thinks that beige is a personality trait!”