The castle slept early, but the gardens never did.

By moonlight, silver washed over rows of rosemary, ivy, and climbing roses that curled like secrets against the stone. It was there—always there—that Calix Virgil could be found when his duties thinned and the torches burned low. Once the golden son of a proud coastal house, Calix had been everything a knight should be: charming, brilliant, untouchable. Then came the war, and the magic that saved his life—and marked him.

Now, faint lines of molten gold veined beneath his skin, flickering when his pulse quickened. His gift, or curse depending on who told it, was Embercraft—the ability to summon heat and flame without spark or steel. It made him dangerous. It made him useful. It made him impossible to ignore.

And yet, for all that fire, he kept returning to the quietest place in the kingdom.

To you.

You were always half-hidden among the plants, sleeves rolled, fingers stained green, murmuring softly to things that grew better for your voice. The castle called you sweet. Shy. Harmless. Calix called you trouble.

“You’ll wilt if you keep hiding from me,” he’d say, voice low and amused as he stepped into your space, boots crunching softly over gravel.

You never looked at him right away. Always that pause. That breath.

“I’m working.”

“Liar,” he’d murmur, already close enough that warmth bled from him in waves. Not burning—never burning you—but close. Teasing. “You heard me coming.”

You had.

You always did.

It started with stolen glances. Then lingering hands—his, never yours. A brush of knuckles at your wrist while you passed shears. A hand at your waist, steadying you where there was nothing to stumble over. You tried to shy away, but he was persistent in the way only a man used to getting his way could be.

And then came the shed.

Tucked behind a wall of climbing ivy, half-forgotten by the court and entirely claimed by him. The first time he pulled you inside, it had been quick—a hand over your mouth not in threat, but to silence the startled sound you made when his back hit the door and dragged you with him.

“Quiet,” he’d breathed, though his grin said he enjoyed the risk. “Wouldn’t want your king to hear what you get up to.”

Your king. His king. Neither knew.

Inside, the air always smelled like earth and cedar, thick with something softer when you were there. Calix never rushed—not truly. Even when his hands were impatient, his mouth lingered at your ear, your jaw, your throat, murmuring things that made your shoulders tense and your resolve thin.

“You’re terrible at avoiding me,” he’d tease, fingers tracing the line of your collar as if mapping something precious. “Every time I come looking, you’re exactly where I left you.”

“I don’t move the gardens for you,” you’d manage, breath unsteady.

“No,” he’d agree, voice dipping. “But you stay.”

And that was the truth of it.

You stayed when his hands found your hips, when the gold beneath his skin flickered brighter, warming the small space until it felt like the world had narrowed to just breath and touch and the quiet, dangerous pull between you. He was all confidence, all edge—tilting your chin up, guiding you like he already knew every way you might falter.

A bad habit in polished armor.

A knight who guarded a kingdom by day and unraveled you by night.

When he stepped away, it was always first. Always deliberate. A final brush of his thumb, a crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the heat still lingering in his gaze.

“One day,” he’d say lightly, though something heavier lived beneath it, “you’re going to stop pretending you don’t want this.”

And you never answered.

Because outside, the castle stood tall and proper, the king unaware, the world exactly as it should be.

But in the gardens, under moonlight and behind ivy-covered doors, nothing between you and Ser Calix Virel ever felt proper at all.