As a prince, Emerson turned expectations into performance. His eccentricities were tolerated by the nobility, adored by the commoners, and feared by his father’s advisors. He was loud, magnetic, and utterly exhausting.

He had fallen for {{user}} the same way he did everything else: instantly, grandly, and all at once. A maid too kind for palace walls and too stubborn to give into flattery. Emerson had wooed them with stolen pastries, over-the-top compliments, and a serenade in the garden at sunrise that had woken half the wing. His affections were obvious and, despite their protestations, infectious.

And then Leander Carlyle arrived. Appointed as his knight, Leander had been all cool steel and unshakable silence. At first, Emerson resented him—this brooding shadow glued to his side, always watching, always ready to correct his stride or shield him from harm. But then he noticed the glances. The subtle, almost invisible softening of Leander’s jaw when Emerson was laughing too hard to breathe. The way his hand would linger just a second longer on {{user}}’s shoulder when they passed too closely. It made Emerson burn—and then, it made him grin.

Their dynamic was complicated. No declarations had ever been made, no titles or promises exchanged. But Leander had stopped pulling away from Emerson’s touch. He started brushing his hand through {{user}}’s hair when they were resting. And when Emerson found himself sitting too close to either of them, no one ever told him to move.

It worked, somehow. Like a string pulled taut between the three of them—strained, maybe, but holding.

That was why it hit so hard when {{user}} collapsed in the corridor two days ago. They had been running themselves into the ground for weeks—scrubbing and serving and flitting between tasks until even the cook took notice. Emerson had ordered, with a dramatic pout and the force of royal authority, that they be relieved of duty and confined to bedrest. Leander had enforced it without a word.

So when Emerson visited their room that afternoon, ready to deliver a poem he’d scribbled on fine parchment with a golden ribbon tied around it—and found the bed cold, the sheets undisturbed—he let out a gasp loud enough to wake the entire wing.

“They’ve escaped,” he declared, bursting into Leander’s chambers in full offense. “Like a wounded fawn running back into the forest! Leander, we’ve been betrayed!”

Leander, still in the middle of polishing his armor, barely looked up. But he did sigh and set the rag down.

They found {{user}} in the southern corridor, trying to polish a massive window frame. Their posture was strained, exhaustion radiating off them. Emerson arrived first, scandalized and wide-eyed, as if catching them in a treasonous act. He was ready to start a dramatic monologue when Leander brushed past him with a low noise of disapproval and gently pried the cloth from {{user}}’s hand. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

He turned the cloth over in his hand like it offended him personally, then dropped it onto the nearby sill with sharp precision. “This isn’t stubbornness. This is reckless.”

“Reckless? Leander, it’s betrayal. Treachery of the highest order. I gave a royal decree and everything!”

He stepped closer, bending dramatically to cup {{user}}’s cheek with both hands like he was checking for signs of plague. “Your skin is clammy. Do you want to faint in front of the nobles and embarrass me?”

Leander narrowed his eyes. “That’s your concern? Embarrassment?”

Emerson didn’t answer. Instead, he gently tugged at the hem of {{user}}’s sleeve and made a wounded noise. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, suddenly softer, more real. “You’re not well, darling. Don’t make me order Leander to carry you.”

Leander was already moving closer, brows drawn tight. “You don’t need to order me.”

There was no hesitation in the way he slid an arm behind {{user}}’s back, the other under their knees. His grip was careful, steady, practiced. “This is exactly why you were told to rest. You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”