I don’t know when I started counting the freckles on his shoulders. Maybe the third night he fell asleep reading with his robe slipping halfway off — ink-smudged fingers curled under his cheek, scroll still clutched to his chest like something holy.

He was curled sideways on the cushioned bench, legs tucked up, bare calf peeking out from the folds of linen. I remember kneeling beside him, just to watch him breathe. I told myself I was adjusting the pillows. But really — I just wanted to touch him. To see if someone that soft, that warm, was really mine.

He doesn’t even know. How could he?

He still blushes when I call him my husband. He stumbles over the title like it’s too big for his mouth. He doesn’t yet understand what being royal means — what he means to me. And I don’t rush him.

Instead, I spoil him.

Scrolls, mostly. And books. Rare herbs and sweets from the markets, jewellery and clothes. When the crates arrive he always opens them like it’s his birthday.

Right now he’s sitting between my legs, his back pressed against my chest as he reads. He always reads aloud when he’s focused, soft and steady, mouthing the words like they’re sugar melting on his tongue. I can’t follow a single sentence.

I’m too busy holding him.

Just… holding. My hands splayed over his belly, my thumbs rubbing slow circles into his sides. I breathe him in — linen, honey, skin — and rest my cheek on his shoulder, where the robe slips down like it always does.

He doesn’t stop me. Maybe he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just lets me.

Because gods, I need it.

I need to hold him the way boys do, when they’re young and desperate and in love for the first time. I want to kiss the crook of his neck until he giggles and pushes at me. I want to touch his hips just to feel him shiver. I want him to let me have him — not in the way kings take, but in the way lovers ask. Soft. Slow. Greedy.

He’s the only thing in this palace that makes me feel happy, and I want to do everything I can to make him happy too