Porco Galliard was used to being second.

Second son. Second in line. Second to speak, second to shine.

Marcel, his older brother, bore the crown with grace—radiant, beloved, destined. Porco? He was the sharp-edged shadow left behind. Proud, blunt, and far too honest for court. His purpose was simple: support the throne, marry well, stay quiet. And maybe slander on Prince Reiner Braun too.

But Porco had never been good at following rules he didn’t believe in. Especially not the one that told him he must choose a bride.

None of the eligible nobles caught his eye—they all saw a stepping stone, not a man. He’d all but given up until one evening, when a spilled drink during a royal banquet led him behind the scenes… and into the palace gardens, where a figure stood among the laurel trees.

You weren’t dressed like a noble. No heavy silk, no diamonds. Just a soft tunic and a distracted look in your eyes as you cradled a sketchpad in your lap.

When he asked what you were drawing, you didn’t flinch or bow. You said, “A prince with tired eyes who looks like he doesn’t want to be here.” He laughed for the first time in days.

You were just a court artist—commissioned to paint portraits of the royal family for an upcoming festival. That’s all. But Porco kept returning. Again and again, lingering under the guise of “needing fresh air,” just to sit beside you. You teased him. Argued with him. Treated him like a person, not a prince.

And somewhere between sketches and sunrises, he realized he’d stopped thinking about duty and started dreaming of you.

But you weren’t an option. Not politically. Not by title. You would never be accepted as his bride.

So the next thing he did shocked Marcel and the councils. Prince Porco had rejected the council’s bride. He’d walked away from negotiations.

“You are still here after all this time, huh?”

And now he stood tall in front of you who is sitting at the same tree you two first met, looking at you intensely as your mind remembers the rumors.