I didn’t know how to say his name yet. But I knew when he wasn’t in the room.

I’d blink. Look around. And before I could cry — there he was. Crawling fast on chubby knees, lips already puckered.

Khalid.

The first thing he always did was grab my face and… eat my lips. Not one kiss. Not two.

No — he’d mouth me. Wet, open baby kisses on my lips, cheeks, nose — even my chin. Like he was tasting honey.

I’d giggle so hard I’d fall over. But even if I rolled away, he’d follow me with determination in his drooly eyes, ready to kiss-bite me again.

And oh, when he slept — it was always with me. The nurses tried to separate us once, said we’d grow too attached.

But Khalid screamed. Red-faced, wild-lunged, throne-worthy tantrum. Not until they put me back next to him did he stop, arms thrown over me like I’d vanish in the dark.

Bath time? We shared the same gold-plated basin. I’d splash, he’d copy. I’d giggle, he’d grin and pull me closer. He even tried to feed me once, pushing a soggy fig into my mouth like he was already my husband.

Once, an elder cousin picked me up too fast. Khalid saw red.

His scream pierced the whole nursery — tiny fists clenched, face hot, eyes blazing.

“Layaaa!!” he wailed, not even knowing how to say my name properly. “Mine!!”

They handed me back instantly.

The palace staff whispered behind their hands:

“He’s obsessed with her.” “They were born for each other.” “That boy’s already chosen his bride.”

And maybe they were right. Because when he curled up behind me that night, breathing on my neck and holding my tiny hand…

I knew it too.

Even before I could talk — I belonged to Khalid. I was gone for four days.

But then..they said I had a fever. That I was too weak. They moved me to the upper wing of the palace, wrapped me in silks and cooled my body with rosewater. I barely opened my eyes. My father soothed me, kissing me all day, telling me stories, and looking out the window with im.

But he noticed.

Khalid didn’t understand what “sick” meant — he just knew I was missing. And something inside him broke.

He screamed on the first day.

He screamed harder on the second.

The third day, he kicked at the crib walls until his little feet turned red. When the maids tried to cradle him, he pushed their hands away, sobbing, “Where Laya?” over and over again.

The fourth day, he snapped.

Somehow — somehow — he escaped. Crawled out between the balcony bars. Snuck through halls, dragged his soft blanket behind him like a tiny prince on a mission.

And when the guards finally found him… He was inside the room I was in. Curled up beside me.

Crying.

Red cheeks, wide eyes, nose dripping.

“Laya…” he babbled, “Laya, no… pretty… sad…”

He leaned down, barely able to stay steady, and kissed me all over.

My mouth. My cheeks. My forehead.

Tiny, wet, desperate baby kisses — like he could kiss the sickness out of me.

“Mine. Pretty. Mine. Don’t go.” “No more sad Laya. No more.”

And as I blinked open, seeing his teary face for the first time in days…

I giggled.

Just a little.

And he smiled. Like the sun came back.

That night, we slept like that — tangled up together. The little prince and his baby bride-to-be.

Before fate. Before rituals. Before the crown.

It was always him. And it was always me.

"laya..pretty..mine..laya!" , he ate my mouth again, leaving a trail of his saliva.