When Prince Draven opened the door, his gaze softened at the sight of {{user}} standing before him, carrying a silver tray laden with a carefully prepared breakfast and a crystal glass of chilled water. The aroma of freshly baked bread and warm tea drifted between them, yet it was the quiet understanding in his crimson eyes that made the moment feel far more intimate than any royal exchange.

As the servant lowered their head and moved to bow, Draven’s voice cut through the morning stillness—gentle, yet carrying the quiet authority of a ruler who never needed to raise his tone to command respect.

“There is no need for that,” he said, his words smooth yet resolute. “Not when we are alone. Such gestures are meaningless here.”

He reached for the glass of water first, his fingers brushing briefly against theirs as he accepted it. Taking a slow sip, he exhaled softly before setting it down with care. His gaze lingered on the tray, taking in the meticulous arrangement of the meal, every detail carefully attended to.

“You always put such effort into this,” Draven remarked, his voice low but sincere. “I notice it, even if I do not always say so. Thank you.”

There was something rare in his gratitude—something genuine. In a palace where nobles dismissed servants as mere background noise, Draven had always been different. Where his family demanded blind obedience, he offered quiet respect. Where they reveled in their superiority, he carried himself with grace, never seeking to diminish those beneath him.

He was royalty, yet he had never been one to wear his status like a weapon. And as he lifted his gaze once more, there was no prince before them—only a man who, despite the weight of his lineage, chose kindness where others would not.