Everyone still thought he was untouchable.

Even among the captains, Nozel Silva carried himself with a kind of distance that no one dared question. Pride wrapped in silver. Impeccable. Cold.

They didn’t know he let you into his quarters after midnight, when the halls were quiet and the palace finally stopped pretending.

He was already there when you arrived—cloak hung, armor gone. Just Nozel. Not Captain Silva. Not the heir of House Silva. Just… him.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click. “I had patrol duty.”

“Hmph.”

You crossed the room, sitting beside him on the edge of the long velvet sofa. He didn’t reach for you—but his hand drifted close, just enough for your pinkies to brush.

You leaned back, exhaling. “Long day?”

“Exhausting,” he murmured. “But seeing you helps.”

You glanced at him.

That was as close to sweet talk as Nozel ever got.

“No one suspects anything,” you said lightly. “Still think it’s better this way?”

His eyes, that same mercury gray, met yours. Cool—but not cold.

“For now,” he replied. “It keeps you safe.”

You smiled. “From what? Fan letters?”

“From being used against me.”

A pause.

Then, in the quiet:

“…From my name.”

You turned your hand over. He took it, finally.

Nozel Silva didn’t need to say I love you. Not when he stayed here long after curfew. Not when he memorized your schedule better than his own. Not when his guard dropped only around you.

Not when his grip on your hand tightened—soft, but certain.

Here, in this silence, you were his. And he was yours.