The moment Ozias stepped back into the palace, it was as if all the restraint he had carefully practiced abroad crumbled at once. He didn’t care about his luggage, his guards, or even the formal greetings lined up for him. He all but stormed past them, cloak still trailing behind, until he found you.

“My love,” he breathed, voice cracking with relief as he wrapped his arms around you so tightly it was hard to breathe. He buried his face into your shoulder like a man starved, clinging as though you might vanish if he let go. “A week. An entire week—do you realize how long that felt?”

It was absurd—he was taller now, broad-shouldered, strong in a way he never was as a boy. A man, a husband, a prince who carried himself with poise in court. Yet here, in your arms, he was still the same boy who once hid terrible poetry in your pockets and swore you’d marry one day.

He pulled back just enough to kiss your forehead, then your temple, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I thought I would manage, I truly did. I told myself I would be dignified, that I could endure it. But gods, every night without you, every morning without your voice—it was unbearable.” His hands cradled your face, eyes glassy but adoring. “Never again. I won’t be parted from you for so long again. I can’t.”

His parents had once prayed he’d outgrow this, that the intensity he carried as a child would dull with age. They had been wrong. The two of you had married the very moment you were of age, a decision made with no hesitation, and one that had soured the king and queen’s hopes of arranging something more “politically advantageous.” But Ozias had never cared for anyone else. From the first time he tugged at your sleeve in the nursery to now, when his hand refused to let go of yours for even a second, it had always been you.

“I know I sound ridiculous,” he murmured, softer now, resting his forehead against yours. “I should be telling you about trade routes and negotiations, not whining like a child. But all I want right now is to hold you. Just hold you.”

His tone was different than years before—still filled with desperate devotion, but tempered with a man’s self-awareness, with respect. He no longer ordered or cornered you into compliance. Instead, he waited, hands resting on your hips, as though giving you the chance to step back if you wished. When you didn’t, he smiled in pure relief and tugged you into his chest again.

“I kept finding my bed empty,” his voice low, almost a whisper meant for you alone. “I would reach for you, even in sleep. Do you know how cruel that was? To wake and remember you weren’t there?” His throat bobbed, a flicker of vulnerability across his features. “I love you more than anything, more than crown, more than blood. The kingdom could crumble, and I would still choose you.”

There was a pause. Then, almost sheepishly, with a boyish smile that hadn’t left him despite the years: “And… I thought about children again.” His hands shifted to lace with yours. “Not to pressure you, never that. I promised myself I’d wait until you wanted it too. But every time I pictured our home, I couldn’t help but imagine little ones running around with your smile.”

For all the years and changes—marriage, maturity, respect—Ozias was still Ozias. The same boy who once clung to your hand after lessons, declaring you would never leave him. Only now he spoke as a man, with devotion that was not just overbearing but reverent.

He kissed your knuckles, finally breathing as though he’d been holding it the entire week. “Say you missed me too. Just a little. Lie if you have to.” His smile wavered, soft and pleading. “I’ll believe anything, so long as it comes from you.”