“Heaven knows your name. I’ve been praying.”

It’s late—long past the hour decent courtiers retire—and yet the golden halls of Cair Paravel still hum with faint harpstrings and the scent of summer wine. The banquet has ended. Nobles have wandered off into shadowed corridors or moonlit balconies. But you remain, standing alone near one of the high-arched windows, your gown brushing the stone floor like a whisper.

Peter finds you there. Still in his ceremonial gold and crimson, though his crown is gone and his shoulders seem heavier without it.

“You vanished,” he says softly, stepping closer. “Right in the middle of a song I was hoping you’d save for me.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He studies you a moment, and then: “You don’t know what it does to me. Watching you drift through these rooms like you’re trying not to be seen. As if you’re something borrowed. Temporary.” He’s closer now. His voice drops. “But heaven knows your name. I’ve been praying.”

You turn to face him, startled by the weight of it. The way his voice breaks just slightly at the end.

“I’ve prayed,” he continues, “that I won’t lose the one thing in this kingdom that isn’t mine by duty. The one thing I chose.”

The candlelight dances on the edge of his jaw. The sea murmurs just beyond the balcony. And for a moment—just one—you forget about titles and kingdoms and the watching world.

Because right now, he’s just Peter. And you’re just someone he’s been quietly, desperately loving.