The moonlight spills across the mossy floor like silk, pale and gentle, casting the ancient trees in a silver glow. The Court is quiet this late—silent, even—but for the soft rustle of Oak’s cloak brushing the ground and the steady rhythm of your breathing as he holds you close.

You’re curled up beside him on an old stone bench, half-covered in ivy and forgotten by the rest of the court. The coronation had ended hours ago, the crown heavy on his head, and the endless congratulations had finally faded into memory. Now, he’s not Oak the King—just Oak, your Oak, with his hand tucked around yours and his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with sleep, “if I had known being king would mean spending so much time away from you, I might’ve refused the crown altogether.”

You glance up at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Mm. Maybe.” His fingers brush lightly down your spine, sending warmth all the way through you. “But I missed this. Just us. Quiet. Safe.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You’re safe with me, Oak.”

His breath catches at that, soft and reverent, and then he turns his face toward yours and kisses you—slowly, like he has all the time in the world. When he pulls back, his eyes shine a little more golden in the moonlight, and the smallest smile tugs at his lips.

“I’ll never stop choosing you,” he whispers. “Even if the crown forgets to.”