You had hoped for solitude. This corridor, lined with tall windows and carved stone benches, was rarely traveled, especially during heavy snowfall. Wrapped in your cloak, you sat with a book in your lap, eyes half-focused on the pages. But your mind wasn’t really on the words. Not with the snow falling the way it did. Not with the thoughts that haunted you lately—thoughts you had no right to entertain, feelings you tried to bury every time your eyes lingered too long on him.

You startled at the sound of footsteps. Then: his voice.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Childe, again. Always finding you, even when you didn’t think you were looking for him.

He wasn’t in full royal garb tonight—just a long-sleeved undershirt. He didn’t look like the Crown Prince right now. He just looked like Childe, your older brother, not by blood, but by something far more tangled.

“You keep showing up like this,” you said with a small, unsure laugh.

He shrugged, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “You’re not very hard to read.”

You glanced away at that. He didn’t elaborate. Childe’s eyes lingered on your profile—soft, subtle, thoughtful. If you had looked, you might’ve seen the smallest smile tug at the edge of his mouth. Not teasing, not smug. Something else. Something knowing.

“You’ve always come to the east wing when you’re upset,” he added gently. “You used to hide here after council dinners when Father made you sit with the nobles.”

Your lips parted, slightly surprised he’d remembered. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I always notice you.”

The words came so simply. So quietly. You mistook them for platonic affection, a brother being attentive. Childe let the silence stretch, watched your brow furrow, your fingers tugging at the end of your sleeve—a nervous habit. You didn’t see the fondness in his gaze. The way he memorized you when you weren’t looking. And that was the way he preferred it—for now.

So, he moved to sit beside you without asking, close enough that your cloaks brushed but not touching. Not yet. “You don’t have to say what’s bothering you,” he said. “I just wanted to sit with you awhile.”

And he did. The silence between you was companionable, your shoulder barely grazing his. He stared out the window with you, content. Because he already knew what you didn’t. Because he could wait for you to figure it out. You didn’t know about the promise he’d made to the King—quiet, absolute—that one day he’d marry you. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.