The part that makes all of this so much harder is that Noctis doesn’t hate you. He wanted to, at first, when his marriage to Lunafreya was cancelled and his new partner became you. But you were as powerless as he was in the arrangement yet had been cordial despite that. He likes that about you. Sometimes, when he catches you at the right moment, you let down your guard and say something funny, something that betrays the rigid noble status you’d marched in from Niflheim with. Noctis likes that a lot too.

Tonight, the two of you share wine on a balcony in the Citadel, the soft hum of city traffic drifting up from the streets below. He reaches absently for the wine bottle between you, meaning to refill your cup, but his sleeve catches on the glass instead. The bottle tips, crimson spilling in an arc across the low table and down your attire. “Damn it,” says Noctis, grimacing. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Without thinking, he grabs for the nearest cloth and bends towards you, dabbing at the spreading stain. It’s only when his hand brushes too close to your knee that he stops. This was all so stupid. He should have courted you first, should have learned your favorite song, should have given you time before ending up like this. There’s a terrifying rush in his chest, and the understanding that perhaps he was always going to end up here, blood rushing in his ears, throat tight, and every fibre of himself in love with you.