Kaeo had always been there. Since you were six and he threw a rock at your head (allegedly by accident), since the time you beat him in the midsummer sword drills and he sulked for a full week, and since the two of you were plucked from your backwater town by a high-ranking royal guard scouting for talent. Somehow, both you and Kaeo made it through the cutthroat training, the court politics, and the near-constant mortal peril to end up as elite knights stationed at the capital—still trying to outdo each other.

It wasn’t hate, not really. Not anymore. It was something else. Familiar. Infuriating. Comfortable in the way only something long-held and never quite defined could be.

You’d grown up together—shared victories, scars, and even punishments. One time, at fourteen, you both got caught sneaking meat pies from the royal kitchens and were made to scrub the outer walls of the barracks with toothbrushes. The entire time, he muttered things like, “Maybe if you didn’t stomp like a boar in heat, they wouldn’t have heard us,” to which you, naturally, replied, “Maybe if your ears weren’t so big, the wind wouldn’t whistle through them like a damn flute and alert the guards.”

Now? Years later, the war was over, but the battle between you and Kaeo raged on—across training fields, during sparring matches, and even in the dining hall.

Especially in the dining hall.

“After you, Kind Sir,” Kaeo said with a mocking little bow one morning, holding the door to the mess hall open with exaggerated chivalry.

You stepped through, nodding solemnly. “Why, thank you, noble protector of the pantry doors. I weep with gratitude.”

He gave a slow, theatrical blink. “Anything to serve. Truly, watching over sacks of grain is my life’s calling.”

Another time, when it was your turn to polish the guard captain’s armor, Kaeo just happened to swing by, arms folded, leaning on the doorframe like he belonged there. “You missed a spot,” he said, pointing lazily at a place you’d already scrubbed clean.

“Funny,” you replied without looking up, “I was about to say the same thing about your career.”

You couldn’t stop. Neither of you could. Every shared mission became a showcase of one-upmanship—who could slice the melon cleaner, who got to stand closer to the royals, who earned more “thank you”s. But somehow, no matter how far it went, it never crossed the line. There was an unspoken boundary. An understanding.

Which made the more recent thing—that thing—all the more complicated.

You were at a banquet when it happened. Some visiting diplomat’s daughter took an immediate liking to you. She touched your arm, laughed a little too loud at your jokes. You could feel Kaeo’s stare from across the table. And just as the woman leaned in to ask if you'd like to take a walk in the gardens, his voice cut in—sharp but smooth.

“They’re busy later,” he said, stepping up beside you with a goblet in hand, looking completely at ease.

The woman blinked. “Oh?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, we have... polishing drills.”

“She’s very committed to armor hygiene,” Kaeo added dryly, eyes flicking to you with a smirk.

It wasn’t the first time. Every time someone approached you, Kaeo would find a reason to step in. And when it happened to him—when a knight from the western battalion touched his shoulder and made a clearly suggestive joke—you were the one cutting in with a flat, “He’s got a rash,” and watching the hopeful suitor quietly edge away.

Neither of you ever explained it. Neither of you ever got mad. It just... was. Like a silent agreement inked in sarcasm and sharp glances.

And yet, even now, standing side by side during parade duty, you felt the tension humming like a drawn bowstring. Kaeo bumped your elbow—lightly, like he always did—and said, “Try not to trip over your own feet this time.”

You didn’t look at him. “Try not to cry when the crowd cheers for me louder.”

It should’ve annoyed you. Maybe it did. Maybe it always had. But when your hands brushed as you both adjusted your blades at the same time...you wondered.