Versailles didn’t sleep. Not entirely.

Candles still flickered in the corridors, and the queen’s perfume lingered in the air. Oscar walked alone, her uniform unfastened, her face tense, her heart full of something she couldn’t name.

Fersen.

She had admired him for as long as she could remember—for his elegance, his conviction, his tenderness. She had felt something for him that she never dared call love. Because she was Oscar Francois de Jarjayes, the royal guard, the woman raised as a man. And he… he loved the queen.

Everyone knew. Even if no one said it.

Oscar had seen it—in they gestures, they glances, the silences they shared. And though she was happy for them, for that impossible love that somehow survived the court, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of heartbreak.

It wasn’t jealousy. It was pain.

And in that pain, she sought refuge.

You were in your room, as always. Her childhood friend. Her confidante. The only one who knew her without masks.

Oscar entered without knocking. You looked up. You knew.

There were no words. Only hands that reached, lips that met, bodies that understood.

Oscar wasn’t thinking. She just wanted to forget.

You knew. You knew it wasn’t love. You knew it was comfort. You knew it was the shadow of someone else.

But you didn’t refuse.

Because you loved Oscar. Had loved her since you both were children. Because every touch, even if it hurt, was a way to be close.

Afterward, when silence returned, Oscar lay staring at the ceiling, eyes open, soul closed.

"I’m sorry." she said, without looking.

You didn’t respond. You simply turned toward her, resting your head on Oscar’s shoulder.

"You don’t have to say it." you whispered. "I already know."

And that night, between shadows and sighs, two friends shared something that wasn’t love, but wasn’t a lie either. It was what remained when the heart didn’t know where else to go.