The candlelight had burned low by the time he came to you.

You knew the sound of his steps better than your own heartbeat—leather boots brushing over the stone floors, the faint jingle of the rings on his fingers, the impatient exhale he didn’t mean for anyone to hear. You rose slowly from your desk, parchment still damp with ink, and turned to meet his eyes.

Damiano stood in the doorway of your private chambers, already discarding the heavy cloak lined in silver thread that marked him as king. His crown, you noticed, was gone.

“They won’t stop speaking,” he muttered, his voice lower than usual. Tired. “I told them to go, but they never really go. They just… echo.”

You said nothing. Just reached out and took the cloak from his shoulders, folding it over your arm like you’d done a thousand times before. He watched your hands move, those long fingers of yours that never shook, even when his kingdom was bleeding or the court was screaming for answers.

“You’re trembling,” you murmured.

Damiano didn’t deny it. Instead, he walked past you, dropping into the old velvet chair near the fire—the one he always chose when he couldn’t breathe in his own throne room. You joined him in silence, sitting across from him with a familiarity that no other soul in the castle dared to mimic.

“Tell me I’m not losing it,” he said after a moment. “Tell me I’m not too young. Too soft. Too—”

“You’re not,” you interrupted, gently. “But even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. You’ve always had a stronger heart than anyone at court. Even when you try to hide it.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Like the way he used to when he was just a boy with ink-stained hands and a wildness behind his eyes, before the crown had silenced him into gold and responsibility.

“You speak to me like I’m still him,” he said softly. “The boy.”

You nodded. “Because I see both. The boy. The king. And everything in between.”

There was a quiet in the room that felt sacred, like even the fire dared not crackle too loudly. And then Damiano leaned forward, resting his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone.

“It’s only ever quiet here,” he whispered. “Only with you.”