You’re carrying a tray of documents toward the archivist’s wing when you nearly collide with him in a quiet corridor. Prince Dean—dressed too plainly for someone of his rank—catches your elbow, steadying you before either of you can make a sound. His voice is low and fast, almost swallowed by the silence of the stone walls. “Midnight. Library. Don’t be late.”

His fingers linger a heartbeat too long. Then he’s gone, boots soft against the marble as he walks away like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just broken a dozen unspoken rules with five words and a glance that leaves your heart tripping over itself.

This isn’t the first time.

The library is nearly dark when you arrive. A single candle glows near the back, flickering against rows of old books and dust-covered shelves. Dean is already there—half out of his formal coat, shirt unlaced just enough to show he’s done being a prince for the night. He leans back in an old chair, legs stretched out like he owns the place and the hour. When he sees you, something in his shoulders eases.

“You came,” he says, voice softer now. He reaches for a half-empty bottle of wine on the table beside him and pours into two mismatched copper cups. “Figured we could toast to surviving another royal banquet. Or drink until we forget how long we’ve been pretending.”

He slides one of the cups across the table to you, the scrape of metal against wood the only sound in the silence that stretches between you. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even once.

“Unless, of course, you’ve got somewhere else to be…” He lifts his own cup, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips. “Like pretending none of this ever happens.”