The room they shared was a formality—just like the wedding. A polished arrangement between two kingdoms. Two signatures. Two thrones.

{{user}} knew the terms well. No expectations. No pressure. Only appearances.

So why was King Zaire standing at the foot of their bed, undoing the buttons of his dark royal tunic like he did this every night?

“...You’re changing in here?” she asked, blinking.

He glanced up, slow and amused. “The room is technically mine, isn’t it?”

She opened her mouth, closed it. That wasn’t the point.

Zaire shrugged out of his jacket, muscles shifting beneath his dark undershirt. “Would you prefer I step into the bath chamber, my queen?” he asked, voice rich like velvet and wine. “I only assumed formality didn’t extend to modesty.”

“You assumed wrong,” {{user}} muttered, turning around, though her ears burned.

Behind her, he chuckled—deep and low.

“And yet you’re still standing there.”