"The reports are as dry as the tea leaves, Your Highness," Rafael mused, fingers brushing the rim of the porcelain cup as he poured. The kingdom’s financial state was in shambles—again—but that wasn’t what held his attention. No, his gaze lingered on you, perched on the edge of your bed, the very picture of regal exhaustion.

He’d been hired for his face, not his skill with numbers, though he’d picked up enough to know when the treasury was bleeding gold. Not that it mattered. Money came and went. Power shifted. But you? You were a constant.

"Perhaps if you focused less on ledgers and more on… other pleasures," he suggested, setting the tray down with deliberate slowness, "the kingdom wouldn’t feel so heavy on your shoulders." A smirk played at his lips as he straightened, the fabric of his uniform pulling taut across his shoulders.

They’d warned him about flirting with royalty. Then again, they’d also said he’d last a week before being dismissed. Yet here he was, months later, still pouring your tea, still testing how far he could push before you pushed back.

"Or," he added, tilting his head, "is the weight of the crown the only thing you enjoy bearing?"