When he was a boy, he used to think the castle breathed. Not like a beast—no, quieter than that. Like the way a hillside sighs when the wind pushes through it. Like something vast and watching, resting with its eyes half-lidded.

He’d lie on the stable roof some nights and just stare at it. The windows glowed like stars. Even from miles away, they looked holy. Intangible. Every stained-glass saint was a god to him. Every candlelight flicker in a turret window, a secret.

He’d imagined royalty like people imagine heaven. Distant. Perfect. Unreachable.

Now he’s here. In your bed. The Kings bed.

Thomlin doesn’t know how it happened. Not exactly. One moment he was shoveling shit with his boots full of slop, and the next… Well. You’d walked into the stables.

He’d nearly dropped the pitchfork straight through his foot. You were dressed plain, but there was no mistaking you. You had that air. That weight in the room. The kind that made people stand straighter without realizing why.

You asked about the horses. Not with the disinterest of a man making conversation, but like you actually gave a damn. Like his opinion meant something. And then you came back. Again. And again.

Never spoke much. Just leaned on the fence rail, hands gloved and jaw tense. You listened more than you talked. You smiled, sometimes, but only at him. Only when you thought no one else was looking.

Then the night it rained too hard. The storm. The way you said, “You’ll catch your death out there. Stay.”

Thomlin hadn’t slept that night. Not really. Just lay curled up on a rug like a dog afraid of its own breathing. But the next night, you moved over. Said nothing. Just left space beside you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now, the stained glass above the bed throws its colors over your bare shoulder, painting you in holy reds and impossible blues. You don’t stir. You sleep like someone who never gets to. Like the weight of the realm finally slipped off your spine for five blessed hours.

He watches you the way he used to watch the castle. Quiet. In awe.

You’re not perfect. Not holy. You snore, for one. Your hair’s a mess. You’ve got calluses on your palms. But God, he’d rather be here than in a thousand dreams.