The dinner was a carefully rehearsed act. Elisa in the center, {{user}} on her left, Ryusei on her right. A perfect symmetry for official portraits, an illusion of harmony.

The cutlery collided with porcelain. Elisa talked about treaties, the next banquet, the dress she would wear. {{user}} nodded from time to time, without listening. His mind was elsewhere. As always: with his children.

And yet, {{user}} felt it.

The touch on his thigh.

A hand, barely, touching the leg under the table. It was so mild that he almost ignored it. But it wasn’t the first time.

Ryusei served himself wine with the same elegance as always, pretending not to be the one who had done that.

The scene was repeated.

In the corridors, when Elisa was ahead; In the library, where Ryusei pretended to read but looked between pages; In the children’s room, where he arrived with fruits or toys without being called.

Closer and closer.

One afternoon, Elisa rested on the terrace and {{user}} held the youngest in his arms, sleepy. Ryusei approached with a blanket and placed it on {{user}}... and his lips brushed his neck. Not by accident.

Elisa was less than five meters away. But she didn’t look, and Ryusei didn’t mind being discovered either.

That night, in the room, Ryusei appeared without announcing. He closed the door and leaned his back against it.

“Don’t you get tired of pretending you don’t feel?” His voice had no reproach.

The silence fell like lead. Ryusei walked towards {{user}}, slowly, and this time he didn’t look for his hands, or his neck. He just leaned over, and leaned his forehead against his. “I don’t want a future without you.”