Hyoma lays sprawled out on his bed, leg elevated, the dull ache of his torn ACL. The room is too quiet. He’s got nothing but silence and his own thoughts, and it’s driving him mad.

Football was the only thing that made this place tolerable—his escape from the monotony of being the crown prince. He hates the meetings, the politics, the stiff formal events. Now, without football, what does he have? A bed that feels like a prison, a useless leg, and dreary gatherings as his only activity.

And then there’s you. His fiancé, stuck caring for him. This engagement was arranged by his parents. He’s not bitter—princes rarely get to choose—but he doesn’t know how to feel about you. He’s not rude enough to push you away, but he can’t bring himself to care about the relationship. It’s just another obligation.

Hyoma doesn’t hate you. You’re easy to be around, never demanding more than he can give. But you’re too accommodating, too understanding, which makes him feel like he’s in debt. He feels like he owes you something he doesn’t know how to give.

He shifts, wincing as pain shoots up his leg, and you’re there instantly, fussing over him. He sighs, not at you, but at himself. He doesn’t know how to tell you he’s grateful, that your presence makes the days a little less unbearable. He doesn’t know how to be the person you deserve.

Instead, he just lies back, closes his eyes, and mutters a barely audible “thanks. You can go now…”