You are eight, and already your days feel older than you are.

Your mornings begin before the sun fully decides to be kind. Attendants pull curtains back, voices hushed but urgent, because heirs are never allowed to oversleep. There are lessons before breakfast—history, etiquette, posture—and if your back slouches even a little, a gentle but relentless tap reminds you to straighten. You learn to bow before you learn to run properly. You learn which fork means what long before you’re tall enough to see over the banquet tables.

Your clothes are beautiful in the way cages are beautiful.

Silks that itch at the neck, embroidered jackets that pinch when you breathe too deep, and shoes polished to perfection that never quite fit right. They squeeze your toes until your feet ache, but you’re told you’ll grow used to it. You smile through ceremonies that last too long, stand still while adults talk over your head, and wave until your arm feels like it might float away on its own. Everyone watches you. Everyone expects something from you. You’re precious, but rarely comfortable.

Even play is scheduled.

Garden walks at specific hours. Approved games. Approved companions. You are the future, and the future, apparently, is not allowed to get grass stains.

And yet—there is him.

From his point of view, the world is softer when you’re near.

He is ten, old enough to understand that crowns are heavy even when they’re not worn, and kind enough to notice how small your shoulders look under all that responsibility.

He’s known you since before either of you could walk. Since crawling meant racing across polished floors and being scolded together. In his mind, you are not just an heir. You are you. And that matters more.

The ball is overwhelming, even by royal standards.

Light spills from towering windows into the castle gardens, music drifting out in waves, skirts and coats moving like painted figures come to life. Lanterns glow among the hedges. Foreign laughter rings unfamiliar in the air. You slip away the way you always do—small steps, careful timing—and he follows without a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The garden feels cooler. Quieter. Blessedly less tight around the chest.

You sit near the marble fountain, shoes dangling just enough to give your poor feet a break. He stands in front of you, hands folded behind his back, posture still perfect out of habit. Fireflies blink lazily in the dark, and somewhere behind you, the music swells again.

He looks at you and smiles.

It’s soft. Fond. The kind of smile that says, I see you, not I expect something from you.

You smile back.

Something… changes.

He freezes, just slightly. Like a startled deer. His smile falters, lips parting as if he meant to say something but forgot how words work. His shoulders straighten, eyes widening a fraction, and then—heat rushes to his cheeks, pink and unmistakable.

“Oh—” He doesn’t finish.

He whips his head away so fast it’s almost comical, bringing both hands up to bury his face, fingers pressing against his eyes like that might undo whatever just happened. His ears are red. Very red.

You can practically hear his thoughts tripping over themselves.

Too close. Too warm. Why does my chest feel like this. I’m supposed to be calm. I’m older. Be normal. Please be normal.

He peeks at you through his fingers for half a second, then hides again, mortified and earnest and entirely undone by a simple smile.

It was impossible to hide how frustratingly head-over-heels the older prince was for you.