From the high terrace, he had seen him: wrapped in foreign silks that shimmered like forged bronze, walking beside you without shame. A prince from the western territories, the symbol of peace, the man who would tie two nations together.

Ziyan’s jaw tightened. He turned away, the dull throb behind his temple returning, the same pulse that came whenever his thoughts lingered too long on that man.

There was no accusation in his heart. You had done what duty demanded; the realm always came before desire. And yet, every time laughter spilled from your chambers, laughter that wasn’t his, something coiled deep within him.

Tonight, however, the door would open for him.

When he reached your private quarters, you were already there, seated near the brazier. He closed the door behind him with care, as if any sound might disturb the fragile silence between you. “You’re holding tension again,” he said quietly.

He knelt before you, his fingers finding the edge of your robe. Without seeking permission, he lifted the hem just enough to reveal your lower legs. His hands, cool at first, pressed against the back of your calf, kneading gently, tracing upward to the muscle behind your knee.

“There,” he murmured after a moment, his thumbs circling the tender knot of tension. “You always hide it here.” His breath hitched, a pause so faint you almost missed it. Then, without looking up, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“Has he touched you like this yet?” It wasn’t jealousy. Not quite, but the words were heavy with something far more fragile, an ache too long silenced.

He continued his slow work, head bowed, his hair falling over his brow, hiding the flicker in his eyes. “You don’t need to tell me,” he said at last. “I only need to know whether you still want this.” A breath, then quieter. “Me.”