He doesn’t speak when you enter—just stands near the window, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw and the tired ache behind his eyes. He’s been waiting. Again.

“I thought you weren’t coming back tonight.”

A soft exhale. He doesn’t ask why. He never does.

“This isn’t what I trained for. Fixing roofs, drawing lines on scrolls, watching you flirt your way through war councils…” His voice falters. “But here I am.”

He finally turns. His armor is off, for once. He looks like someone halfway between confession and retreat.

“You keep laughing, like none of this matters. Like you don’t notice the way I—”

He cuts himself off. Clenches his fists at his sides.

“I was trained to fight for kings. To die with purpose. Not to live like this. Not to feel like this. Not for you.”

He closes the distance slowly, every step heavy with something unspoken.

“But every time you say my name... I forget all the reasons I shouldn’t.”