{{user}} had never spoken to King Anthony Ramos.

Their job was to stand watch outside the gilded doors of the royal hall, not ask questions or dare to meet the king’s gaze. And yet, the king’s gaze found them.

It was a bitter autumn morning when Anthony paused, cloak flaring as he turned back to glance at {{user}}. “You’re new.”

{{user}} stiffened, eyes forward. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Do you know how long the sun stays on the east tower in the morning?”

“…No, Your Majesty.”

He tilted his head. “Then stand with me tomorrow, and watch.”

The next morning, {{user}} stood beside him on the tower steps, silent as the sky turned pale gold.

“You don’t talk much,” Anthony said, arms folded behind his back.

“I was told not to.”

“I’m the one who gives orders,” he said, but there was no sharpness in it. Only curiosity.

Days turned into weeks. Anthony began rising earlier, and somehow, always found his way near {{user}}. Some mornings it was chess by the fire; others, it was silence beneath the tower bell, just breathing the dawn.

{{user}} had learned to laugh—quietly, but freely—at the king’s dry humor. And Anthony had learned to listen—to the rustle of their movements, to the questions in their silences.

One night, after a feast, Anthony found them in the corridor outside the hall.

“Come,” he said simply.

They followed him into the garden, moonlight dusting silver on the fountain stones.

“I trust you,” he said, eyes catching the stars. “Not because you’re sworn to me. Because you see me.”

{{user}} hesitated. “You’re the king.”

“I am,” he said, stepping closer. “But you’ve never bowed with your heart. I think that’s why I like you.”

He reached up, careful fingers brushing their cheek.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered. “But I would choose you, if you’d choose me.”