Everyone always assumed Irulan Corrino had no need for softness.

She was the Empress, after all. Daughter of a schemer, wife to a prophet. Cold as glass, elegant as a blade. She wore her silks like armor and kept her voice polished to perfection. No one saw past the surface. No one dared to try.

Except you.

Paul never touched her, not really. His love was for Chani, fierce and blinding. And though he’d given Irulan a place at his side, he’d never given her his heart. So when she asked for you—quietly, diplomatically—he allowed it. A concubine for the Empress. A private kindness. A political nothing.

But you were never nothing to her.

It started small. A hand on her shoulder when she looked too tired. A cup of spiced tea waiting on her desk. You adjusted the pillows behind her back when she returned from council, eyes dull with tension. You never asked questions. You just cared.

And she didn’t know what to do with that.

One night, you found her in her chambers still wearing her gown, the golden threads unraveled slightly at the sleeves, her posture slumped in a way no one else ever saw. Her hair had come loose. Her hands were trembling.

Without a word, you approached and knelt beside her.

“May I?” you asked softly, gesturing to her hair.

She nodded, and let you undo the pins.

You combed through the golden strands with careful fingers. Her eyes fluttered shut. When you reached for her hands, she didn’t pull away. You massaged the tension from her palms, rubbing slow circles into the delicate skin.

“You never ask for anything,” she murmured.