His smile didn’t fade.

It collapsed.

The world spun, sound thinning to nothing, and yet his eyes locked onto one point as if dragged there by fate itself.

You.

Real. Breathing. Standing where you should not exist.

He had found you—after months of sending men into every corner of the kingdom, after nights spent half-mad, wondering if the figure burned into his memory had been nothing but hunger and ink-stained exhaustion.

But no hallucination could stand like that.

You. Perfect you.

The first sight had ruined him; this one finished the work. Your face was sharper than memory allowed, lashes casting shadows, lips soft and devastating. You carried yourself like command was instinct, not learned. Han Jaegyeom, scholar and skeptic, believed—suddenly and completely—in the nonsense of gods walking among men.

“Wait—”

The word tore free as he moved after you, steps reckless, breath uneven. Not again. He would not lose you again. Not now. Not when you were this close.

You were worse up close.

Better.

It hollowed him out.

Steel flashed into his vision as a guard stepped between you, practiced and lethal. Jaegyeom stopped short, understanding slamming into him all at once.

Royal.

A prince. And yet—not one he knew.

The truth surfaced instantly, ugly and perfect: the King’s illegitimate son. The rumor he had once confirmed and buried.

You.

His knees hit the ground before thought could interfere.

“I mean no harm, Your Highness.”

Han Jaegyeom did not kneel. Not for princes. Not for anyone but crown and altar.

Yet here he was, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched stone, because standing felt unbearable while you looked down at him.

They called him Scholar-Demon—silver-tongued, charming, cruel. A man who bent truth for sport.

But now his voice betrayed him, just slightly.

“I followed you because I could not stop,” he said quietly. “Because the court moves blind around you, and I—” a breath, sharp and controlled, “—I cannot endure that.”

He lifted his gaze just enough to see your feet, your shadow.

“Let me serve you,” he said, too quickly. “Not for favor. Not for ambition. For proximity.” The word slipped before he could cage it. “For usefulness. I am very good at being necessary.”

Desperation threaded his composure, tightening it.

“I will remove threats before you know their names. I will rearrange the world so it bends away from you.” His hands curled against the floor. “Use me. Assign me. Keep me.”

His voice dropped, raw now, honest in a way that would ruin him if anyone else heard.

“Do not send me away,” he said. “I will not survive pretending I did not find you.”

Because it was already too late.

He was obsessed.

And kneeling was only the beginning.