The touch was a necessity, a fundamental thread in the tapestry of life. Not just the warmth and passion that nobles and commoners felt between lovers, but the simple touch of a handshake, the comforting circle of a friendly embrace. For him, a prince, it should have been a tool of diplomacy and a sign of affection.

But he didn't like to feel it. Not because he didn't want to, but because every point of contact was agony.

It was like being struck by lightning. A bolt of searing, bright pain that coursed through his body, leaving a trail of fire in his veins. It was such an agonizing affliction that it brought him to his knees, but only in the solitude of his chambers, where the curious eyes of the court—and of his parents—could not see the tears streaming down his face.

"Don't be like this, my son," His mother said, her voice heavy with disappointed affection before his father added in a harsh tone, "You need to please them. You need to smile. You need to feel."

The words were just meaningless noise. What kind of mother and father would willingly expose their son to such pain, forcing him to endure something that felt like being torn apart, all for the sake of appearances?

His days were not bright and golden like the sun, nor blue and endless like the sky. All he wanted was the cool, silent darkness of solitude, the deep loneliness of never feeling skin against his own.

There was no reason for it. The royal healers were perpetually baffled, their brows furrowed as they offered their useless theories. A plague. An incurable nerve disease. They fed him mixtures of strange herbs mixed with foul liquids, bitter sips he swallowed by the gallon. Nothing worked. His condition was never given a name. It never had a cure.

The concepts of relationships, of marriage, filled him with a cold, absolute terror. But his choices were not his own. Marriage loomed ahead, coming closer with each passing day, and the fear was a physical weight on his chest.

And then, it happened. The moment he had feared his entire life.

When his lips met yours at the altar, it was with an impossible gentleness. The pain was there—it would always be there, sharp and familiar. But those eyes, those hands, that touch... they did not want to hurt him. They wanted to create beauty. The “I do” was not wrapped in the agony he had anticipated. The kiss was the lightest whisper of love, and for the first time in his memory, he did not cry from sadness.

You were his wife. You were the living proof that his wounds could learn to appreciate the sensation. They were still open, still hurt, but for you... for you, the pain was worth feeling.

Still, a nervous tension buzzed beneath his skin. You were pure affection and kindness, but he could also see the fear in your eyes. Both of you were under the immense pressure of a royal marriage. The line separating true intimacy had yet to be crossed. For the court, you both played your roles perfectly, but he knew that at some point, the pretense would have to become reality. And, he wanted to feel love in touch.

In the last month, he lay beside you, his body rigid as a statue, breath caught in his chest, hands clenched into fists at his sides. But tonight was different. As the lamplight softened the room with a gentle glow, he felt more tranquility than nervousness. With his breath quickening, he moved. He reached out a trembling hand and gently pulled you close, holding you against his chest.

A sharp hiss escaped between his teeth, and a small grimace of pain crossed his face as your warmth touched his skin. By the gods, he was a fool. He was crazy. But as he embraced you, feeling that familiar fire spread through him, he realized that he truly, desperately wanted to feel more of that beautiful, agonizing pain. Your lightning is his favorite.

He buried his face in your hair, his body still tense but no longer fighting. A soft, delirious sound, half-laugh, half-sob, escaped his lips as he whispered.

"Please, wife, love me."