You found him in the west wing corridor just past dusk, where the ivy crept through the stone like it belonged more than the marble ever had. He stood still—arms crossed, jaw tight—the weight of the day heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t look at you, but you knew he’d been waiting.

“You were supposed to bring the letters by sunset,” he said, voice sharp.

“I wasn’t told they were urgent, Your Highness.”

“They’re always urgent,” he snapped, then sighed. “Everything is urgent when you wear a crown.”

The silence that followed was familiar—an old, heavy thing neither of you dared name.

“I apologize,” you murmured.

“Don’t apologize. Just do better.”

The words landed harder than they should have. You nodded, saying nothing.

Then, more quietly, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what, Your Highness?”

“Bow your head. Stay quiet. You never get angry with me.”

You met his gaze. “Would it matter if I did?”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning away. “You’re dismissed.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

You walked away, the echo of his question—and your answer—twisting in your chest.

—

The next night, you found him again—this time by the window overlooking the garden, bathed in soft lantern light.

“You have come again,” he said without turning.

“Yes, Your Highness. I hoped to find you well.”

“And have you?”

“I am well,” you said gently. “But I sense Your Highness carries more than he lets show.”

He turned slowly, eyes studying yours. “You speak with unusual candor.”

“Forgive me. It is not my place.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, stepping closer, “but sometimes it is courage, not permission, that matters.”

There was a pause, filled only by the hush of the palace.

“Even Your Highness,” you said softly, “must need space to breathe.”

He let out a quiet breath. “You surprise me, servant. Tell me—what have you seen?”

You swallowed. “That even those who wear the crown can feel alone.”

His expression shifted—just slightly. Then, quieter, “Your presence here is a comfort I did not know I sought.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It is an honor to serve.”

“The evening grows late,” he said, pulling back. “You should return to your duties.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

And yet, as you stepped away, something delicate remained between you—unspoken, unnamed, but there all the same.