Antares ❁ @dreamsofmoney - Tumblr Blog

MOONBEAM

⋆༺𓆩♔𓆪༻⋆ ♔ THE CROWN THAT BLEEDS

℘ — royal guard!shota (소울) x choi princess!reader ▸ ⌜ 22k ⌟

synopsis ▸ the nuisance boy from your childhood, your younger brother jongseob’s best friend, returns after years away from the castle as your newly appointed guard. but he’s not just the same mischievous kid who tortured you for fun anymore—he’s a man now. preparations for the royal wedding leave you busier than you’ve ever been and with your new guard, much to your dismay, following you like a shadow, you’re forced to overcome your differences and make peace with the fact that he may not be as awful to have around as you initially believed. unforeseen and violent circumstances leave you to face your evolving feelings even despite the myriad of reasons you have to not fall for him. but when has politics and status ever stopped true love from blossoming?

δ — nsfw (mdni), forbidden romance, forced proximity, one-sided enemies, yearner!soul, miscommunications, secret romance, sneaking around, besties soulseob, blood/gore, death, hurt/comfort, angst, jealousy, smut, dom!shota, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, oral (f. rec)

♪ willow - taylor swift

ᯓ an — another one for the hoes (piwon) shota is such a yearner in this and he's also hot as fuck i want him real bad but the romance is romancing anyways pls grab a snack, sit back and enjoy! it's a rollercoaster :) let's ignore the fact that i finished writing this two days ago despite having months to finish it...

“I do not need a babysitter, brother.”

Jiung narrows his sharp eyes at you and you can tell he’s nearing his wits end. But regardless, he pulls on a smile that you suppose is to assure you. It only grates your nerves further.

“It’s not a babysitter,” he states calmly. “He’s just like any guard.”

“But you’re assigning him to keep an eye on me all day long. That’s simply too much!”

“Sister,” he starts, pausing for a breath. He leans forward in his chair, smoothing the space between his brows with a knuckle. “We are having a lot of visitors for the wedding. It is in everyone’s best interest that we have someone watching you at all times. You’re young, you never know what—”

“Here we go again,” you snap, throwing your arms up in frustration as you start to circle the room to expel some of your irate energy. “What about Jongseob then? He’s younger than I, is he also getting a babysitter?”

Jiung’s eye twitches. “It’s not a babysitter,” he repeats. “And that’s different.”

“Why?” You stop, placing your hands on your hips and glaring at him. “Because I’m a woman?”

Jiung hesitates for a moment before his expression sets back into a stern one. He stands from his seat. “Yes,” he says and before you can argue, he barrels on. “Which means you are more at risk of danger.”

You falter at that, feeling your metaphoric claws retract at the undeniable truth.

Jiung rounds his desk and makes his way over to you but you stand your ground, petulantly turning your head away from him.

“This is for your safety,” he tells you firmly, though it's gentler from his earlier tone. “It will put my worries at ease, and Taeyang’s, to know you’re being taken care of while we become busy with everything for the next few months.”

You cast your eyes down. Jiung never intends to demean you, you know that. But the thought of being watched and hovered around for the next two months puts a sour, uncomfortable taste in your mouth.

But you suppose you could put up with it for Jiung and Taeyang’s ease of mind—well, Jiung’s at the least. You’re not very close to Taeyang to care much what goes on with him.

“Alright,” you finally concede and the visible relief that washes over Jiung’s whole being is enough to make your defeat worth it. “I suppose it won’t be horrible.”

“That’s right,” your brother beams. “Hey, you might even make a new friend. He’s not much older than you. You remember Shota, right?” You tense at the mention of his name, dread threading through every nerve of your body as Jiung carries on like he hadn’t just thrown your mental stability off-kilter. “Akiro’s son, Jongseob’s friend.”

Shota? The demonic little gremlin that your younger brother kept around for some reason? The one who terrorized you throughout childhood?

Your eyes snap up to Jiung with an ice so cold that he visibly flinches back.

“What?” He asks. “Why do you look like that?”

“Shota?” You ask slowly, voice drenched in a seething rage. You take a step forward. Jiung scrambles back. “Don’t tell me that demon is going to be my guard.”

Jiung visibly swallows, taking another step back when you step closer. “Okay,” he says. “I won’t tell you.”

You bring your fist down on his arm sharply and he yelps, cradling his bicep.

He stares at you with wide eyes that quickly turn angry. “What is wrong with you?!”

You point a finger at his face. “I am not putting up with that cretin again. Reassign me. Now.”

He grits his teeth, placing his palm atop your head that he uses to push you easily out of his space. “That’s not in my power. Unless you want to speak with Taeyang.”

Your face falls. You’d rather chew nails than suffer an emotionally stunted conversation with Taeyang.

Jiung scoffs. “That’s what I thought.” When his eyes fall over your shoulder and his expression shifts quickly to his sunny smile, your stomach pools with trepidation. “Shota! We were just talking about you.”

You refuse to turn around. Maybe then he’ll go away and none of this will be real.

His voice sounds deeper than you last remember when he speaks.

“It’s an honour to be of help to your family, Your Highness.”

You’d been avoiding him all that you could after suffering through one too many of his “jokes”. Even though he hasn’t been around much for the past few years, only a handful of times that your brother would invite him to the castle, you made sure to stay far away.

And now all of that effort has turned pointless in mere unfortunate moments.

Jiung’s eyes shift back to you, his brow raised expectantly.

You simply glare at him, never mind that you come off as a pettish child. You are.

“You will have to forgive my sister,” Jiung says, still looking at you with a forced smile. “She seems to be in a mood.”

You raise your fist to punch him again but Jiung grabs your wrist and forces you around.

You nearly stumble right off your feet.

Shota stands there at the doors with his arms folded behind his back, a pleasant smile on his lips. You know your memory of him is a little foggy but you don’t recall him like this. Tall and broad in the shoulders, more of a man than the gangly kid that you had to deal with.

But his smile—that disarming, sweetly deceptive smile of his—is exactly the same, and you feel your defenses rise from just one look at it.

“It is a pleasure to be in your presence once more, Your Highness,” he says easily, lowering in a bow with a hand over his heart.

When he rises again, you turn to Jiung with pleading eyes.

Jiung only returns it with a scolding one. “He’s perfectly pleasant. Don’t be a brat, and play nice.” He shoulders you forward and you stumble a few steps towards your new guard, huffing under your breath.

You suppose you don’t have much of a choice. So you look at Shota and give him a polite but stiff nod.

When it becomes clear you won’t say anything to him, Jiung sighs behind you.

“One more thing before you go,” Jiung says while you eye Shota with sharp, revolted eyes. Shota seems unphased by it. “You are to help with preparations for the wedding. I’ve told the Head Housekeeper to call upon you should they need any help or any input since you have mother’s eye for art.”

You turn to him again, narrowing your eyes. “You didn’t bother to consult me first?”

He raises both his brows. “What, do you have more pressing matters to tend to?”

You scowl at him because you can't dispute it. It’s not that you don’t care to have responsibility, you prefer to sway to your own breeze. But you suppose this wouldn’t be awful. The idea of arranging the first wedding in your family is an enticing one.

“Alright,” you concede. “I suppose that won’t be horrible. I approve.”

Jiung stares at you for a moment. “Thank you for your permission,” he says instead of ‘like you had a choice’ like his eyes do. “You’re dismissed,” he adds hastily, eager to get you away out of his space and dismiss his headache with you.

You turn around with a satisfied smile which melts away when you’re reminded of Shota, who stands there patiently.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, marching right past him. Against your wishful hoping, his footsteps trail after you a few steps behind.

You ignore him as you make your way to your bedchambers. That is your sure fire way to escape him.

“It has been a while since we’ve spoken, hasn’t it?” He chimes in after an awkward moment.

You remain silent as you turn into the hallway leading to your room. You celebrate at the quiet that follows after, hoping he would get the hint. But he starts up again just as you reach your doors.

“I apologize if I’ve done anything to wrong you, Your Hi—”

“Wrong me?” You stop, whipping around to face him, and he skids to a halt, round eyes wide in shock at your sudden outburst. “You and my brother practically tortured me!”

He opens his mouth to speak but you shove your finger in his face to shut him right up.

“I know you wouldn’t risk your job now by reverting to your childish ways,” you start as you step into his space, your expression twisted with ire. “But that doesn’t mean we are acquaintances in any means. Do not take your friendship with my brother to mean that we can also be friends. We’re not. Understood?”

He visibly swallows, eyes shifting from your finger to your face. And you think your intimidation worked for a split second, but then his eyes twinkle like they always did just before he did something to piss you off when you were kids.

He straightens his body, his hand shooting up to an emphatic salute as he grins at you.

“Understood, Your Highness,” he chirps, looking all too happy to be scolded by you.

Your face sours further and his only grows brighter.

You scoff, turning to your room. “Whatever,” you grumble as you shove your way through your doors, letting them shut on Shota’s still saluting figure.

You hope by some miracle that he will station himself far enough away so that you can slip out without him noticing.

But then you hear his boots clack before stilling right outside your door, and you sigh to yourself, dropping onto your bed. You pray the months will pass quickly.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You know it's a ridiculous attempt, but you’re already climbing across the walls from your window to Jongseob’s and you can’t worry about anything except not falling to your death.

You cling on to the protruding overhangs as you walk along the limestone ridges of the outer walls, inching closer and closer to Jongseob’s room which thankfully isn’t too far from your own. You just pray that he’s in his room to allow you in.

You peer below, immediately regretting it when your stomach lurches at the long drop. There are bushes below you which you pray to the gods will cushion the fall. If you fall.

Which you won’t, you keep telling yourself. You just hope none of the gardeners will look up.

When you reach the window, finally, you jump onto the outer windowsill and start pounding on the glass. The curtains are drawn, so you can’t see in to see if Jongseob is in there.

You batter at the glass for what seems to be minutes before the curtains finally rip open and Jongseob stands there on the other side, wide-eyed and completely disheveled.

“Sister?” You hear his shocked yell through the thick glass.

You glare at him and pound on the window again. “Hurry up and open it!”

He bristles, scrambling to swing the windows open and you quickly stumble in, breathing in relief while your heart still pounds away in your chest.

“What in the heavens are you doing?!” Jongseob asks as you rise to your feet, dusting your dress off.

“Escaping,” you answer simply. You take one look at him, at his messy hair, messy clothes, and flushed skin, and ask, “What in the heavens were you doing?”

He blinks dumbly before the red on his cheeks fire up in realization and he starts to hastily smooth himself down. “I was napping.”

You raise your brow, unconvinced, but this isn’t your concern at the moment.

“What exactly are you escaping from?” Jongseob asks to divert, avoiding your eye. Then realization dawns on him and his eyes snap back to yours in exasperation. “Don’t tell me this is because of Shota.”

You cross your arms, looking away with a ‘hmph’.

For the entirety of your past week, Shota has been stuck to your side like a pestering bug. It doesn’t matter if you try to shake him or slip away, he always finds his way back to you like a bloodhound.

And it is absolutely maddening. He doesn’t speak, not since you’d scolded him on the first day, but his presence is enough to still get under your skin.

And with it being around you all the time, you desperately need a break. Could you be blamed for wanting an escape?

“You are so immature,” Jongseob sighs, rubbing his head.

You scowl at him. “I’m immature? You remember all those jokes you pulled on me with him?”

“That was years ago,” he deadpans. “We were kids.”

You huff indignantly. “You know I hold a grudge.”

“That you do,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Now can you please leave?”

Your nose scrunches in distaste. “I was going to but now that you’re being so annoying, maybe I’ll hang around here for a while,” you state before you start to march your way over to his bed.

“NO!”

You jump when Jongseob practically throws himself in front of you, intercepting your path and pushing you back.

There’s a quiet thump that you hear somewhere behind him.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, and he stares back at you just as shocked and more than a little panicked.

Your eyes narrow in suspicion as you cross your arms. “What was that sound? You’re being weird.”

“And you’re invading my personal space,” he fires right back before he starts pushing you towards the door. “Go find somewhere else to hide. Find Keeho!”

You groan, batting his hands away as you finally surrender. “Fine! But if Shota comes asking, you didn’t see me. Got it?”

He stares at you like he’s gathering an argument but you cut in before he can muster it.

“And I’ll forget why you’re acting so suspicious.”

Frustrated, Jongseob throws his head back. “Okay, fine. Now leave!”

To get the upper hand, you thwack him on the forehead before turning to the door and leaving him clutching his head in pain.

You should’ve known better than to think you were in the clear. Because when you push open Jongseob’s doors, there stands Shota on the other side with his arms behind his back and expectant like he was waiting for you.

“Seriously?!” You cry and he just blinks at you. “What are you?!”

He tilts his head. “Your guard.”

You hear a stifled laugh behind you but you’re too caught up reeling in your defeat to reprimand your gremlin brother.

Huffing, you shove past Shota. “Unbelievable,” you grumble, marching down the halls.

Maybe it’s time that you give up and accept your fate. If even climbing the walls to escape won’t work, you’re not sure anything will.

You were hoping you could complete your duties, which commence today with the help of the West Princess betrothed to your brother, without Shota getting in the way but it seems that was just wishful hoping too.

“If I may—”

“You may not,” you cut him off, and he obediently complies.

At least there’s that. He hasn’t gone out of his way to provoke you like before. But the anxieties still remain that he might drop bugs in your hair or put dye in your soap.

It keeps you on edge as you prepare with the staff for the Princess’s arrival the next day.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The ball has turned out just the way you had wanted, if Shota had to guess by the bright grin on your face. He watches as you flurry around the vast area, greeting guests and being the social butterfly he never could be, from where he stands at the sidelines with the other guards.

He couldn’t do much to enjoy the festivities besides stand there and watch over, but at least he got to watch over you.

You might despise him. But it’s something that Shota has had years to get used to. And he doesn’t much care as long as he gets to be in your vicinity. He’ll enjoy your company from the sidelines and repent for his childish displays of affections by doing that from a distance.

A voice on Shota’s left breaks his focus from you.

“You too, huh?”

He peels his gaze from you, a difficult task, to see Sir Intak stationed with him.

Confusion etches his mind, until he catches the way Intak is watching the sister of the betrothed Princess—the one assigned to him for her stay—with a gaze so honeyed that it would be nearly impossible to miss.

Shota giggles at the realization, turning back to the crowd to seek you out again. It’s easy to find you; it’s like he’s tuned just for you.

“It seems that way,” he admits sheepishly. There’s an understanding that passes between the pause before he continues. “At least mine has been in the works for years.”

Sir Intak scoffs, though it’s lighthearted. “Mine was love at first sight.”

“As was mine.”

Shota’s heart nearly gives out when your eyes catch his for a moment, as if you’d heard the confession from all the way over there, as you scoured the crowds.

In that moment, he thinks he understands what it means for it to feel like time has slowed.

Even from this distance, he could map out the delicate features of your face—the very one he’s been dreaming of since he was a kid.

But it doesn’t last for long. You’re quickly whisked away by another princess from a distant land but Shota’s mind stays locked still on the lingering weight of your gaze on his.

It keeps him company as the engagement ball nears its end. Even as his restless body protests the idea of it, he wishes it wouldn’t end so soon—if only so he could keep watching you for a moment more.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Assisting the Princess is quite the task, you find out, because she would rather spend it trying to poke at your brother rather than be productive.

Which leaves you to hold the ground while she marches up to his office to pester him. You consider following her up just to watch for the sake of entertainment but you end up finding the tasks enjoyable. The Princess clearly doesn’t, not that you blame her considering the situation she’s in (you don’t imagine anyone would be delighted to be marrying your brother).

So to make things a little less overbearing for her, you take it upon yourself to be in charge of general aesthetics and condensing the amount of choices to the palette you have in mind, keeping the garnet of your kingdom and the emerald of hers, so she doesn’t have too much to parse through.

Shota, thankfully, stays out of your way. So much so that you nearly forget about him. He becomes nothing more than your shadow.

Except when things start to get tedious, and you start hitting walls and getting overwhelmed—that's when he starts to step in.

Too many things in your hand? He’ll swipe them right out from you and carry them instead.

You couldn’t see past the tower of curtain fabrics in your arms, the ones you’d offered to help transfer from the parlour to the ballroom.

You’d waved off Shota’s offer for help earlier, biting that you could handle it on your own. But you didn’t realize velvet could be so heavy. Or that the walk would be so long.

You also didn’t realize you had started swaying, or that you started straying from your path, because a hand, gentle and warm, pressed against your waist to gently move you back on track.

You flinched at the touch, stopping in your tracks and whipping around to face Shota.

Shota stopped as well, bowing before you. “My apologies, Your Highness. You were about to hit a wall.”

Your cheeks flushed at that and you quickly turned to hurry back on your path. “It’s fine,” you muttered quickly, trying to ignore the tingling heat that remained at your side.

But before you could get far, he caught up to you and swiftly took the fabrics into his arms.

“Hey!” You exclaimed, but your arms breathed in relief when the weight was lifted off of you.

He only gave you one of his sweet smiles before nodding at you to move along. “I am at your disposal, Princess.”

You start misplacing things and thinking you’ve lost your head? No worries, he has a sharp eye and is apparently watching your every move.

You could swear you’d left out the napkin you wanted to present to the Princess right there in the centre of the table but it seemed that in your rush, you buried it under the others.

You kept flitting through the piles, searching desperately for the one that caught your eye.

“Oh, you idiot, why didn’t you put it to the side?” You scolded yourself in pure exasperation as you sifted through what must be hundreds of samples.

Shota’s voice chiming from behind you didn’t even vex you past the annoyance you held with yourself at the moment.

“Are you looking for this one?”

You almost ignored him, but when the words finally processed, you turned in a hurry.

There, in his large hand, was the delicate red linen with gold and green embossing around the perimeter that you’d been eyeing since the start.

“Yes!” You cried in relief, taking the napkin from him with both of yours like you were accepting treasure.

“You left it under your teacup,” he told you, and your face immediately fell with embarrassment.

You really are as scatter-brained as Keeho likes to call you.

Shota giggled, a soft, pleasant sound that took you by surprise, as he looked at the napkin then back up at you. “It’s pretty.”

It became very apparent over the past few weeks that Shota had in fact matured and isn’t the same boy looking for any opportunity to approach you with a snake or to hurl rocks at your balcony.

He not only charmed everyone he came across with his musical laugh and soft voice and sweet smile, but he was starting to become something of an asset. Someone you were relieved to have beside you throughout your tasks.

The feeling grows more apparent during the flower arranging session. Something must have shifted between your brother and the Princess, because he’d entered the room and declared he would be joining the session to the surprise of, well, everyone.

“Did he have a stroke?” You mutter under your breath quietly enough so Taeyang wouldn’t hear from where he’s only a few feet away. Shota giggles at your side.

The Princess actually voices her shock aloud, “Did you have a stroke in the few days that I haven’t seen you?” It nearly sends you into a fit of laughter at your parallel thoughts.

It dies away when Taeyang shoves the bush daisies that were in Princess’s arms into yours instead, nearly catching you in the face, and you wind up to yell at him but Shota quickly relieves you of the bouquet and hands it to a nearby maid.

You huff instead and fall to the sidelines, watching as the ever stoic Prince Taeyang starts to fuss over flowers.

It’s ridiculous enough to have you pursing your lips to hold back your comments and laughs. Glancing to your right, Shota is doing the same, eyes twinkling with amusement as he watches the scene unfold.

“I don’t think that’s my brother,” you find yourself saying, wincing when Taeyang places a peony crown atop his head that the Princess immediately snatches away, chiding him for being ridiculous.

Shota snickers. “Whoever it is, I think the Princess likes him better.”

You scrunch your nose. “I wouldn’t know why. There’s petals stuck to his hair.”

“That’s part of the charm,” Shota adds and you scoff, bringing your hand up to hide your smile.

The cleanup is a headache, especially considering Keeho and Intak had joined in creating the mess. There’s petals lodged in every corner of the room.

You’re collecting the flowers and petals that had gotten mangled and left on the floor, tossing them in the basket in your hand, when Shota chimes in.

“Why are you cleaning?” He asks, despite the fact that he’d also picked up a basket to gather the mess.

You pause, looking over with raised brows. “Why are you?”

“Because you are.”

A simple answer. Honest enough to leave you feeling a little endeared.

You turn back to your basket, sifting through some of the trampled roses you collected and picking out a pretty pink one that looks like it somewhat survived the massacre.

You consider whether to answer him for a few moments before shrugging. “I don’t mind busy work. It helps ease my mind. Plus… it’s not entirely for non-selfish reasons,” you admit. “I need the petals for a painting.”

Confusion etches his face as he stands straight, turning to you. “Painting?”

A little off put by the casual conversation, you nod stiffly. “Yes. I paint in my free time.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes lighting up. “I didn’t know you did art.”

You raise your brow at him, perching the basket at your hip. “Because you were too busy pulling on my hair and teasing me.”

His cheeks turn a rosy pink, a pretty colour against his pale skin. You glance down at the pink rose in your hand, noticing the similarity in shade.

“I apologize for the way I behaved, Your Highness,” he tells you sheepishly, bowing his head. “I simply didn’t know what to do with myself around you.”

While the apology doesn’t fully absolve him, you suppose it’s a good start. But the admission confuses you.

You place the rose back in the basket, tilting your head. “What do you mean?”

The blush only seems to deepen. You glance down at your basket to see if there’s one in that shade, mourning subconsciously when there isn’t.

“Can I see?” He asks, and you’re too caught up in your petal search to realize the diversion.

“See what?”

“Your art.”

You can’t really find a reason to say no. And the way he looks at you so earnestly, you can’t say that you want to deny him.

So you turn, basket against your hip, as you start towards the upper floor. He follows along with a kick to his step.

But when you step into your bedchambers, you hear his footsteps skid to a stop.

You look over your shoulder to see him standing at your doorway with his basket still in hand, staring down at the divide between the hall and your room.

“What is it?” You ask, stopping in your tracks.

He lifts his head and blinks at you. “It would be improper of me to go inside.”

You roll your eyes, just a little fondly, as you continue to the corner of your room where you have your supplies stationed.

“You’re assigned to oversee me around the clock,” you state as you place your basket on your table cluttered with sheets and pastels. “What difference does it make? Just come inside.”

When he still hesitates, you turn to him with your arms crossed.

“That’s an order,” you state, and he immediately complies, hopping through the barrier with an impish smile on his face.

You purse your lips to smother the smile that threatens to rise at his unusual antics. He may have matured, but he’s still just the same at his core.

You glance down at the basket he holds. “You brought it with you?”

He walks over, offering the basket to you, though his eyes are fixed over your shoulder and on the walls behind you.

“I figured you’d need more material…” He trails off.

“Oh,” you say, a little taken aback but you accept the basket. And you’re all the more grateful for it when in it, you see a pale red tulip that would go perfectly for the vision you started cultivating in your head.

You’re brought out of your head when Shota breathes a quiet, “These are beautiful.”

You lift your gaze to see him utterly starstruck, his glimmering eyes taking in the myriad of reds and pinks on the canvases perched on your shelves.

You flush, unused to the attention to your craft. It was always just a quick nice work or that’s adorable or how sweet that you try so hard.

You swallow away the emotion that threatens to rise in your chest, chiding yourself for being too emotional as you place his basket beside yours.

“Thank you,” you say stiffly, unused to having to respond to such an earnest display.

His attention turns to the canvas you have perched on the easel facing into your craft corner, a landscape you started weeks ago but haven’t been able to continue for some reason.

But even that unfinished greenery seems to enchant him.

“It’s not finished,” you say quickly, feeling the need to defend yourself. “I had an idea for it but, I don’t know, I suppose I lost the inspiration.”

He blinks and looks at you over his shoulder. “You could have fooled me.”

You scrunched your nose. “How? I haven’t added any flowers yet.”

He laughs softly, bowing his head in apology before turning back to the finished paintings along your wall. “I see you favour flowers.”

The defensive urge in you rises again but you’re quick to smother it down. It’s not judgment, simply an observation. “I’m not much good at anything else,” you admit sheepishly, wringing your hands at your front. “My mother really liked flowers… I suppose I wanted my creations to be like hers.”

He turns to you again, his gaze soft, and you quickly look away. You don’t think you can handle pity. “What did she think about yours?”

“I never showed her,” you admit solemnly. “I was too afraid she wouldn’t like them.”

The quiet that follows is deafening. You wish you hadn’t said anything at all.

Sensing your discomfort, Shota pivots.

“Could you paint me something?”

You blink at the sudden question, lifting your gaze to his. “Huh?”

He bristles, cheeks flushing as he quickly drops to a deep bow. “My apologies, Your Highness. I shouldn’t ask such a thing from you, that was improper of me.”

You scramble to diffuse, having to reach over and nudge his shoulder to get him to rise again.

“That’s alright!” You say quickly, laughing awkwardly when his wide eyes lift up to you. “I can paint something for you.”

He straightens in a flash, beaming at you. “Really?!”

You can’t help it. You laugh, quick to hide it behind your hand. “Yes, it’s fine,” you tell him, and the tension leaves his body. “It might just be the inspiration I need to pick up a brush again.”

You miss the weight of them beneath your hand. The lull in your recent days has wiped you clean of any motivation.

But the familiar prickles of artistic urge tingle under your skin when your eyes shift to the baskets on your desk, to the rose and the tulip sat at the tops.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You make an unlikely friend in Shota in the weeks to come. He’s the one you consult whenever you notice a shift between your brother and the Princess’s relationship, the one who agrees with you that there’s too many secret looks and disguised remarks for this to be a less than amicable union.

He’s also the one you find yourself complaining to rather than Keeho, who’s become more mopey than usual.

Needless to say, you don’t dread having him follow you around anymore. You almost mourn when he bids you goodnight before he switches with the nightguard, but at least you spend those hours asleep so you’re not really missing out on him much.

You welcome his presence now. You even invite it during your afternoon tea, making an extra cup for him to enjoy with you out on the terrace. And during your evening strolls, you invite him to walk beside you instead of behind you.

He seamlessly becomes part of your routine.

Until one morning when you open your doors to be met with Jiho, your nightguard, instead of Shota.

Your face falls. “Why are you still here?”

Jiho’s greeting smile falters. “I was informed that I would be accompanying you this morning and afternoon, Your Highness.”

“By who?”

“By Prince Jiung, Your Highness.”

You push past him and immediately make for Jiung’s office, Jiho’s scrambled footsteps falling in step behind you.

“Jiung!” You cry as you barge in through his doors.

Jiung, huddled over his mountain of paperwork, sighs before lifting his head to you and plastering on a smile.

“Yes, love?”

You cross your arms. “Where is my guard?”

He blinks, glancing past you. “Right behind you.”

You click your tongue, feeling far too offended than you should at the notion of anyone other than Shota being referred to as your guard. “Not that one.”

“Oh,” he says, tilting his head. “You mean your favourite one?”

“Yes—” You bite your tongue immediately, realizing your grave mistake when Jiung’s lips stretch into a wolfish grin.

“I see you’ve warmed up to Shota,” he starts, all too satisfied at your mortified face as he leans back in his chair. “Who was it throwing a tantrum over him again?”

You simply glare at him before turning your head with an indignant huff. “Just tell me what happened.”

“He’s taken the day to train,” he chuckles. “He said he felt antsy. Too stagnant.”

“Oh.” You suppose that makes sense. A person of his station should keep on top of his physical being, and workouts in his quarters can only take him so far. “I see.”

He raises a knowing brow at you. “Hm. Anything else?”

You’re about to dismiss yourself but falter when your eyes catch onto Jiung’s state; pale and with shadows darker than usual under his eyes.

A frown settles on your lips, that familiar ache in your chest rekindling whenever you see him fall worse for wear like clockwork. “Are you okay?”

His smile softens, but it looks forced. “Don’t worry,” he insists. “I’ve been with our healer regularly. She’s been helping me.”

You nearly miss the flush on his cheeks past your worries. “Make sure your sessions with her are actually productive,” you chide, then quickly add, “Health wise.”

The glare he sets you with leaves you unphased. Anyone with two eyes and a brain would notice his crush on your family healer, but you just hope that that’s incentive enough for him to actually check up for his health and not just for his eyes.

Jiung dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“The crown would be a mess without you,” you remind him before you leave, a subtle plea for him to actually look after himself.

You turn back towards Jiho, who flinches under the sudden weight of your gaze.

“Take me to the training grounds.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You shouldn’t have come here. Every alarm in your head tells you to turn around and run—but your body has other plans.

There Shota is—sparring with another guard on tucked away grounds of the courtyard, moving with the wind like his bones don’t exist—shirtless.

He’s muscled in a way that you thought only existed in books. Not overbearing, but corded in a way that’s elegant on his lean body. The slopes of his defined abdomen keep drawing your gaze, but your focus remains on his veiny forearm as it shifts with every swing of his wooden sword. The sight of his hand, large and strong around the hilt, leaves you feeling suddenly parched.

The warm air feels hotter than it should, the breeze doing nothing to help it. And your body burns with an unfamiliar heat that leaves you feeling skittish and aching for something, you don’t know what.

You’re not sure how long you stand there for, or how long the spar even lasts. But next thing you know, the other guard is on his back and Shota stands above him with his sword pointed at the guard, chiseled chest heaving.

You feel dizzy when you catch notice of the trickles of sweat gliding down his glistening body.

“Princess?”

You’re snapped out of your daze, eyes blinking up at Shota’s face that’s now turned to you. His sword is clutched limply at his side.

Your face burns in the fear of getting caught staring but he seems lost on it, round eyes wide in confusion.

“What are you doing here?”

It takes a magnitude of effort to keep your eyes on his face and not his enticing… everything. You didn’t know that under all his layers, he was carrying this, when his face is the complete opposite—sweet and doe-eyed and innocent looking. How are you supposed to look at him the same way ever again?

You’re spurred into motion when he approaches you—rather, the canteen of water placed on the bench beside you. You watch as he picks it up with long fingers, watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swigs the water back greedily.

Realizing you’re taking a little too long to speak, you force the words out of your dry mouth. “I was just wondering why you abandoned me without warning.”

He blinks over the lip of his bottle, lowering it before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Abandon you?” He asks. “That was not my intention, I apologize if—”

Noticing the actual distress that overtakes his expression, you quickly cut in with a shake of your head. “No, no, I’m not actually upset. But you could have warned me.”

He drops into a deep bow. “I apologize, Your Grace.” When he lifts, he gives you a nervous smile, shuffling on his feet. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

You sigh, your eyes dropping momentarily before shifting quickly up when even just that slight glance sends your head spinning.

“You could have just brought me here instead of dropping me on someone else like I’m cargo,” you point out, crossing your arms. You’re not sure why this is so important to you, but you feel as though the point should be made.

He answers you honestly like he always does. “I didn’t think this would be something you’re interested in.”

He wouldn’t be wrong. But…

You glance down, your eyes lingering for a short moment before finding his wondering eyes again. “I might be.”

The smile that blooms on his lips is as warm as ever, but you think you see that familiar glint of mischief somewhere in his eye. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You realize that even just a half day with another guard leaves you feeling more off kilter than it should. You miss Shota, you realize as you trudge through another noon full of tasks. It’s not the same without having your supportive hand and listening ear by your side. Jiho just doesn’t know how to keep up with you.

You make that known when Shota returns by your side for your evening walk.

He’s ecstatic when he hears your woes, smiling to his eyes with the tips of his ears tinged pink.

“I’m happy to know you’re happier with me around,” he says and you’re quick to shut that down, your own cheeks turning pink.

“Okay, I didn’t say that,” you state defensively. You brush your hand along the flower bushes at your side as you stroll the familiar path. “I just said I prefer you to the other one.”

He turns to you, his smile tilted teasingly. “Is that not the same thing?”

Something about the mischief in his smile and the confidence in his eye sends your heart fluttering. You quickly look away, keeping your eye fixed along the cobblestone as you try to wave away the image that comes rushing to your brain of his body, glistening under the sun like a tantalizing dream.

“Believe what you want,” you grumble in defeat and he laughs.

Silence comes then, comfortable and familiar as it always is with him.

“Why now?” You find yourself asking after a warm moment. When he tilts his head in question, you continue. “Joining the Guard, I mean.”

“Ah.” He looks up in thought, folding his arms behind him as his eyes move this way and that to gather his words. “I’ve been training with my father since I was young. I knew I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I would have joined earlier but after his injury I had to stay with him and help him get back on his feet.”

You nod in understanding. Shota is former Knight Akiro’s only family. Akiro’s wife had died during childhood, which meant Shota was left to his care, which meant Shota was always around in the castle as a helping hand while Akiro worked.

Akiro’s injury protecting your Father in an ambush during a journey from the South rendered him unable to continue his duties. Which meant moving back into the common town, albeit the nicer side, after healing under the royal watch.

Shota must have had to bear the responsibility of helping his father for the past four years.

“What does he do now?” You ask. You’re not sure why you care, but seeing the fond look on Shota’s face as he talks about his father is one you’re not in a hurry to get rid of.

“Weaponsmith,” he answers, giving you a smile. “We opened up a repair shop. It’s doing pretty well now. So when the announcement for recruitment came, my father asked me to join.” He looks forward again, his smile dimming. “I didn’t want to leave him. But this has been my calling since I was young, so…”

“You must miss him,” you say, and the shy smile that lifts on his lips warms you inside. “But I’m happy you joined.”

He lifts his gaze to you, soft and searching against your own with an honesty that feels a little intimidating. When he stops walking, you do too, but you don’t once stray from his gaze.

“Me too,” he whispers.

The space between you is short but somehow it feels like nothing. The dying sun sets his hair alight like a halo, the pale white lit a gentle golden by the rays.

You get lost in how soft the tresses look as they sway with the wind into his eyes.

The colour reminds you of something; it’s right on the tip of your tongue.

It comes to you just as Shota speaks, gentle like the wind.

“Princess—”

“Moonbeam!”

Just like that, the moment breaks. He blinks out of his daze, confusion filtering in. “What?”

“Moonbeam,” you repeat, then take off behind him.

You hear his footsteps follow after you as you rush to the bush of moonbeams planted alongside a section of the pathway you’d just passed.

You crouch down to hastily pluck one of the buds before rising and turning back to Shota, nearly crashing into him in your excitement.

Before he can question you, you lift the flower beside his hair and smile, satisfied when the pale yellow of the flower matches the shade of his pale hair almost perfectly.

The familiar prickle under the skin of your palm reawakens as you grin up at his starstruck eyes. “Moonbeam.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You realize your growing affections for Shota when you’re in the middle of painting.

The epiphany hits you so hard and so strong that you drop the brush, smearing the pale yellow paint against what was supposed to be clear waters.

You stare at the blemish as the wooden brush clatters to the ground, the terrifying thought that you may have feelings for your guard hanging heavily over your head.

No, you scold yourself as you start frantically tidying away your supplies.

He is your guard. Your worker. Stations beneath you. You cannot grow feelings for him. It simply isn’t allowed and if either Taeyang or, heavens forbid, your father found out about this, they would have his head.

Whatever it is, it cannot be more than a simple crush—just some fleeting feelings for a boy your age that’s not terrible to look at and has the basic manners to tend to you.

That is no base for feelings. Certainly for nothing more than a meager crush.

But once the realization sinks in, it doesn’t leave you.

It carries with you into the next day, and you cannot explain to yourself, or to Shota, why you’re being distant.

But he seems to get the hint to leave you to yourself when his fourth question of the day goes unanswered. Though when he falls silent, devoid of his tinkling giggle or his soft voice or his subtly snide remarks about pompous nobles, you feel an ache grow alongside your weakening heart.

You hate every second that you leave him wondering what went wrong. You hate every second that leaves you feeling guilty for causing the pout on his lips and the melancholy in his eyes.

You’re hurting him. And you’re hurting yourself.

But it’s a necessary pain if it means it’ll drive away your misplaced feelings. You’re just not sure if it’s effective.

And the next week that you spend like this is simply torturous.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The assignment comes from Taeyang—through Jiung—to retrieve something from a trusted jeweller in town. A necklace he had commissioned for the West Princess, apparently, and it was not to be trusted in the hands of anyone else.

“Make sure it doesn’t leave your sight,” Jiung tells you as he fastens your cloak around your neck. You were dressed in simple garments so as to not draw attention to yourself. “And do not leave Shota’s eyesight, understand?”

You grow quiet at that, brows furrowing as you fix your eyes at the crest on your brother’s jacket. “Can’t Jiho come with me?”

He pauses, then places his hands on his hips and bends down to meet your eye. “What is with this hot and cold routine with you?”

You bristle, glaring at him. “It is not—”

“Did something happen?” He cuts in, gaze growing concerned. “Did he do something to you?”

Your eyes snap open wide and you quickly shake your head, waving your hands frantically. “No! No, brother, nothing like that.”

He raises his brow but when you give him an insistent look, he sighs. “Alright.” He straightens to his full height again. “Then what is it?”

You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out. What are you supposed to say?

Defeated, you groan. “Nothing,” you mumble. “Nothing at all. I’m just in one of my moods.”

His curiosity quickly turned into a frown. “I told you not to call it that,” he states. “You’re a growing woman, it’s alright if you—”

Immediately, your face burns at the implications as your hands lift in instinct to press over your ears. “Please stop talking!” You cry, and Jiung bursts into laughter at your fluster.

“Alright, enough with the melodramatics,” he chuckles, nudging you towards the carriage, which was mundane just like your dress for the very same reasons. You give under his push, trudging closer to where Shota waits for you by the opening. “Keep an eye on her,” Jiung tells him. “She’s slippery.”

Shota glances at you then gives Jiung an awkward smile. “I know.” Then he bows and draws open the curtain for you.

Jiung gives you one last squeeze on your elbow before stepping back and leaving you at the hands of the very person you’ve been trying to distance yourself from. “Be safe.”

The carriage ride to town stretched longer than it really was in the silence. Besides Shota sitting across from you, there were two other guards pressed to your sides.

Shota would keep glancing at your sides, clearly unhappy about something, before asking you if you were alright. You would answer him with a simple nod which would be enough until his next question of if you’re thirsty, or hungry, or uncomfortable. He really did feel more like a babysitter now than a guard.

And as much as you wanted to find it annoying, it only did more to weaken your heart.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Receiving the necklace was the easy part. You were more than shocked to find that the sketch sent to the jeweller was made by none other than Taeyang himself, that the vision for such an intricate piece was his own. You had to bite your tongue from mentioning the revelation to Shota, who was waiting by your side as you inspected the jewels before you could accept it.

It was only after stepping outside of the jeweller and walking towards the carriage that was stationed away from the crowds did you come across trouble.

Like a hound calibrated for danger, Shota unsheathes his sword. “Stay alert,” he commands, pushing you gently behind his arm. The other two guards immediately follow suit, forming a protective triangle around you.

The hairs at your neck stand at the rising sense of prickling dread and you clutch the small jewel case close to your stomach, hidden under your cloak.

The area you’re in is dead quiet. Isolated. You don’t hear a sound; there’s no signs of life but the trees and the birds. But still you feel the eyes on you.

Shota’s hand presses against your waist, firm and possessive.

“Shota,” you whisper shakily under your breath.

His grip tightens. “I’ve got you,” he whispers back.

It happens all at once. Figures, cloaked in black clothing, emerge from trees and swords go swinging around you.

It’s all a blur to you. There’s a handful of those cloaked figures that come from all sides. Your guards take one each, Shota takes on two. And the other—

Your yell gets muffled by the burly arm that wraps around your mouth and neck, hauling you back. But you fight with the arm not clutching the case, swinging your elbow back and up into the attackers jugular.

It was sharp and quick enough to disarm the attacker for a weak moment, long enough that one of your guards could get the jump on him, his previous victim left bloody on the ground.

But your relief is short-lived.

“Princess, behind you!”

You turn to see a knife swinging, too late to do anything about it.

But there's a flash of silver and white, and the terrifying moment of clarity that follows right after makes you realize that Shota has taken your place.

His body drops into you and you’re barely prepared to catch him, the weight of him bringing you down to the ground. Before you can process anything more, a sword swipes the head of the attacker clean off and its dismembered body drops to reveal your other guard, pale as a ghost as he stares down at your and Shota’s crumpled bodies.

You watch as the guard’s gaze travels down Shota’s frame, stopping somewhere at his torso before he turns even paler.

“He’s bleeding,” he breathes, sheathing his sword and dropping down.

Shota’s head rolls onto your shoulder, his body feeling heavier on you by the second. Once the moments that had just transpired sinks into you, your own body lurches with panic.

You look down at Shota’s head against your shoulder to see his eyes blinking heavily up at the skies. “Shota?” You grasp his cheek with a shaky hand as the guard undoes Shota’s layers to reach the wound at his stomach.

“Princess,” he strains, forcing his watery eyes open to turn and peer up at you. There’s a single cut on his brow, but beyond that and his ghostly skin, he looks untouched. If only. “Are you okay?”

“Am I…” A surge of fury surges through you but it quashes down when the other guard rushes over with the medkit, handing it to the guard that scrambles to close the weeping wound.

“The carriage is damaged and the driver is nowhere to be found,” says the guard, looking less panicked than you feel but you can see it carefully concealed behind his stoic eyes. “We can’t risk taking Shota back on horseback. Princess, there’s an inn a few streets down. Take disguise and stay there, we will come back for you and for him in the morning.”

“Leave them here?” The guard tending to Shota asks in disbelief but he keeps his focus on closing the wound. “You can’t be serious!”

“We don’t have any other choice,” the other spits. “We need to stay in a pair in case there’s another ambush, otherwise we’ll never make it back to the castle.”

“We’ll be okay,” you intercept, despite the way your voice shakes. Their gazes lift to you, one relieved and one hesitant. “We can stay low. I’ll make sure he’s stable through the night.”

Though he’s still reluctant, the guard nods his assent. “Okay,” he says, then ties off the bandage around Shota’s waist. “Make sure he stays awake until you’re safe. Get him as much water as you can.”

You nod, and the guard rids Shota of his leather armour and his bloodied shirt, swapping it for the clean shirt off his own back. It’s dark so even if blood seeps through the bandages, it won’t be enough to draw attention. They take his sword and leave him with a dagger sheathed under the waistband of his trousers, and once he looks like a commoner just as you do, they bring him up to his feet.

With shaky limbs, you slip the jewel case into the waistband of your corset and rise to your feet.

Shota winces when you take the weight of him to your side, his arm winding around your shoulders as a pained whimper leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, holding him close to your side. “You can stay up for a little, can’t you?”

He takes a breath before nodding, though his movements are sluggish.

“I can,” he affirms. He looks up at the other guards and gives them a weak nod. “Hurry on. Stay safe.”

One of the guards goes to the carriage to retrieve the stash of food and supply left to bring back to you. When he sees your hesitance, he assures you they’ll stock up before they leave before strapping the satchel to you.

With a final bow, the guards take off and you and Shota are left to your own.

“Come on,” you breathe, pulling him firmly to your side as you trudge onwards.

Acting normal is easier than you think—at least, you hope your efforts are fruitful. The sun had started to fade so you feel a little safer cloaked under the darkening skies.

You pray to the heavens that neither of you look suspicious enough to set the innkeeper off. You’ve been told of this town’s displeasure for the royals so anything amiss could mean your demise. Luckily Shota is a master at schooling his face and hiding his pain.

Shota has become heavier against you to the point where you’re pulling him along more than he’s walking, but you trudge through your sore muscles on sheer adrenaline. For a lean man, he’s hefty.

The innkeeper brightens when you and Shota push through the doors of the humble inn your guard had advised you towards.

“Hi there!” She chirps from her desk.

“Hi,” you chime back with a pleasant smile that goes panicked for a split second when Shota sways in your hold. His arm tightens over your shoulder to straighten himself, his free hand clutching onto your arm around him as you make your way to her desk. “We’d like a room please.”

The woman, perhaps a decade older than you, gives you both a teasing smile. “He looks like a clingy one. Ah, young love,” she sighs dreamily, and before you can correct her, she turns to the line of keys behind her. “One bed, coming right up!”

Shota’s arm tenses around you and he seems to blink his bleary mind awake at that, standing to his full height.

You burn in mortification of what the woman’s words imply, but you suppose it’s good that she thinks you’re just a couple passing by.

The innkeeper turns back around to you and pauses, her smile fading just a bit. “Say, you look quite familiar, young lady. Have you stayed with us before?”

Familiar panic surges through you again but you force your smile. “Uh… no. No, I haven’t.”

“I know!” She gasps, eyes going round with realization. “You look so much like the young princess! The one from all those paintings they have around town.”

Your own eyes widen and flit quickly towards Shota to meet his side-glance with your own. “Oh,” you say, then let out a laugh that you know sounds far too awkward to be genuine. “I get that a lot, actually.”

The woman narrows her eyes at you for a horrifying moment before she bursts into another of her sunny smiles, waving her hand. “Ignore me, you kids probably just want to get to bed. Come along, dears,” she beckons as she takes down the hall. You hobble to keep up with her. “Are you just passing through?”

“Yes,” you pipe up, cutting Shota off before he could speak. He blinks down at you. “We thought we would take a trip… to… get away from the kids, you know?”

Shota stumbles over his next step but you’re quick to catch him before he can take you both tumbling down. You shoot him a sharp look that he just looks at with wide eyes.

“Oh!” The woman laughs. “Don’t I know? I keep telling the husband, let’s get away for a few days, reset our minds and come back! I love the kids, I really do, but gods do we need a break.” The woman stops at door twenty-five and fiddles with the key to unlock it. You wish she would go faster. “Good on you two. You’re a handsome couple, stay here for as long as you need and I’ll even swipe off a few bucks for ya.” She pushes open the door and turns to you to throw you a wink, pushing the keys to your hand. “Now I’m sure you two want your privacy so I’ll get out of your hair.” Then she’s sauntering back down the hall, waving over her shoulder. “Holler if you need me!”

You stand there for a moment, reeling from the barrage that was that woman.

But Shota’s pained grunt snaps you back to the present and you’re quick to bring him in, locking the door behind you.

When you set Shota down on the bed, he practically melts against the sheets, the tension and exhaustion seeping out of him at once.

You drop the satchel, immediately reaching for his shirt to ruck it up and see his bandages drenched in blood.

He’s already watching you when you look up at him. “May I?” You ask him and he nods without delay.

You spring into action, prying open the stained bandages to reveal the wound, about three inches wide below his belly button. Your vision swims at the sight of spewing blood but you push past your nausea to press fresh gauze against the wound to soak up the blood.

“I can stitch it,” he offers, voice strained, but you quickly shoot him down.

“It’s alright,” you say, picking out the needle and thread from the satchel. You prepare it with shaky hands before dousing it with the alcohol stashed among the supplies.

You can still feel his gaze on you as you get to work, but you draw all your focus on the task at hand. It’s not the cleanest, given that this is maybe your second time (the first was merely practice on a dummy), but it’s enough to hold him over until morning.

It’s hard not to give it all up at his little whines of pain as you work but you know without at least this, he won’t make it far.

Your mind still reels from the attack, but your barrage of thoughts stays at bay as you work. Though as soon as the fresh bandage is wrapped and he seems more at ease, they come at you full force.

It’s your fault, comes to you as you help him out of the sodden shirt.

He got hurt because of you, comes to you as tidy up, wrapping the bloody gauze with the shirt before shoving it in the satchel.

He took the hit for you, comes to you as you climb beside him onto the bed with the canteen of water and the food left in the satchel, some bread and some fruit.

You push those thoughts back as you help him lay against the pillow, lifted slightly to allow him to drink.

“Here.” You slide your hand under his head, the soft tresses of his hair damp against your palm, as you bring the canteen to his lips. His hand comes around yours to tilt the canteen further up as he drinks. You let him empty it out before placing it at the bedside table.

It’s quiet as he nibbles away on the bread while you peel open an orange absentmindedly, preoccupied by those thoughts that keep prodding at your weakened mind.

“I didn’t realize we had kids.”

You blink out of your daze, looking up to meet his eyes peering up at you, a tired slant lifting his lips.

You let out a soft breath, holding a slice of orange to him. “Two of them,” you say weakly.

Instead of taking it in his hand like you’d expected, he takes the slice right in his mouth, warm lips brushing against the tips of your fingers. His cheek puffs as he chews around his words. “What are their names?”

You watch him, the slow movements and the heavy eyelids that he fights to keep open as he watches you with those big brown eyes.

“Tulip and Rose,” you murmur without thought.

The corner of his lips twitch up. “Not Moonbeam?”

You feed him another slice, biting back a smile. “Saving that for our third.”

He laughs, soft and airy, and it's enough to ease away all your worries. The joy on his face takes you by surprise, considering the circumstances.

“You’re talking to me again,” he says, and amidst all of this, you’d forgotten that you were avoiding him.

You can’t anymore. Not after what happened.

The last dregs of your mirth slip away as you look down at the mangled orange in your hands.

“You saved my life, Shota,” you whisper. Your vision blurs as the declaration lingers in the air.

His hand enters your view, wrapping over both of yours in your lap. “Please don’t be sad,” he begs. “I have to protect my Princess.”

You feel yourself crumble, the tears slipping down your cheeks unrestrained. His own expression falls, drowning in sadness at seeing you in a state like this.

“At the risk of your own?” You whisper. “That’s not fair to you.”

His breaths are starting to even out and you can tell consciousness is starting to feel evade him. But he fights until his very last nerve to breathe the words, “I would have done it even if I wasn’t your guard.”

Your sob falls on deaf ears as he finally slips under. You place your hand on his chest, just to feel the evidence that he’s okay beating against your palm.

And you fall asleep like that, by his side with his heart under your hand and the realization that yours is truly, and utterly, gone.

𓆩⟡𓆪

When Shota doesn’t wake up the next morning, your stomach twists itself in knots with panic. You had woken up right where you’d dozed off with your hand over his heart. There was a beat, slow and faint, but still there.

Your prayers were answered when the guards had returned with a small army to take you and Shota back, nevermind the commotion that it started amongst the townsfolk. The only focus was to get you and your guard back in one piece.

The carriage ride was grueling. Shota laid unconscious with his head in your lap as the other guard kept his body from jostling through the ride. The medic that came with did his best to keep Shota stable until he could be seen by the royal healer.

All you could do for those painful few hours was watch his sleeping face, peaceful as though there was nothing amiss and your heart wasn’t in the throes of anxiety.

When you arrive at the castle, they immediately take Shota from you. Having him practically ripped away from you felt like having your own heart ripped away and you wanted to go after, but Jiung is there, grasping you by the shoulders and keeping you planted where you are.

“Sister!” His eyes are wide in panic, the shadows under them more prominent than ever. His chest rises and falls too quickly. “You’re… Are you—”

You don’t let him finish. You crumble in his arms, burying yourself into him as you sob. Your guilt, your grief, the weight on your chest—you let it all out on him.

“Shota,” is the only word that leaves through your lips in a wrangled sob.

Jiung’s body slumps against you as he holds you tight, tucking you under his chin. “It’s alright,” he consoles gently, carding a hand through your hair. “He’s in good hands now. He’ll be okay.”

You desperately want to believe it. Because if he doesn’t wake up, you don’t know what you’d do with yourself.

Jiung pulls you in closer, and you’re reminded of the small case tucked into your waistband as it digs into you under the pressure.

You pull away from Jiung, prying the case out of its place and holding it out to him. “The jewels.”

Jiung stares at the case in confusion before seeming to remember what it is he’d sent you out for in the first place. He takes it from you and hands it to a maid nearby without turning his focus from you.

“Come,” he says, taking you by the arm. “Let’s get you cleaned.”

You dig your feet into the ground when he tries to pull you inside, turning to you with a puzzled look when you don’t comply.

“I want to see Shota,” you state firmly.

Jiung looks like he’s about to deny you but when he sees that determined flare in your eye, he knows it's a lost cause.

So he sighs and gives you way.

𓆩⟡𓆪

They don’t let you inside as they operate on him, and the last thing you want to do is disrupt, so you wait outside the doors, practically quivering with anticipation.

Jongseob is here too, looking almost as nervous as you are as he paces along the hall.

Jiung’s arm around you as he waits beside you is not the usual comfort that it normally is for you.

“This kind of thing happens,” he tries to tell you, but you’re having none of it. “It’s not your fault, love, he just did what he had to do.”

You don’t respond to him. You can’t because if you try, you’ll let things slip that you shouldn’t. So you keep to yourself, and you wait for the one person you can say those things to.

It feels like hours later until something finally happens.

The healer steps out, wiping her bloody hands with a rag. “He’ll be okay,” she announces, and it relieves that crushing weight in your chest almost immediately. “He’s asleep for now but we’ll keep him here while he recovers.”

Jongseob steps forward to speak but you make it before he does.

“Can we see him?” You ask, and the healer gives you a gentle smile.

“Of course.”

Jiung lets you and Jongseob take the room, opting to wait outside with the healer.

You’re not sure if you regret not waiting until he’s awake, because the sight of Shota laying on the cot, pale and unmoving, unnerves you more than you expect it to despite knowing that he’s okay.

You and your brother simply stand there for a few moments, watching the shallow breaths that Shota takes.

“How did it happen?” Jongseob asks quietly, like he’s too afraid to invoke the story.

You answer anyway. “He took a blade for me.”

Nothing more needs to be said. A quiet understanding passes.

Jongseob lifts his eyes to you, watching your solemn expression, and you internally thank him for not bringing it up. It would make it too real. And you're not sure you can face the truth just yet.

“I’ll give you some space,” he tells you and you couldn’t be more grateful for your brother’s emotional capacity. “Send someone for me when he’s awake.”

You’re left alone then, and even though you’d cried for him already, it doesn’t feel like enough.

It must be hours that you spend at his bedside, watching the healer come by every so often to tend to him (but mainly watching him) before you allow yourself to clean up when you realize he won’t be rising soon.

Besides that, you don’t leave his side. You stay with him through the night, Jiho stationed outside the door to keep watch.

Sleep evades you. All you can do is sit there with his limp hand in yours and stare at the way his hair catches the moonrays from the window.

It must be after five past midnight, when you finally start to drift off with your lids too heavy to keep open, that you feel Shota’s hand twitch in yours.

Your foggy mind immediately clears as you straighten in your chair, staring at his hand laying loosely in yours.

You start to think that you’d imagined it, until you see his finger tremble with slight movement.

Then you hear it; his breaths picking up, quicker and uneven, before a groan, soft and quiet, leaves his lips.

You lift from the chair, leaning over him to watch as his face shifts. You bring your hand to his cheek, pressing gently against the smooth skin, and his eyes finally flutter open.

“Shota?”

You watch as he slowly blinks into focus. Once his vision seems to clear, a weak smile blooms on his lips.

“Princess?”

His voice sounds rough. Jagged and dry and like it might hurt to speak. But at this moment, it sounds beautiful.

“What are you doing here?” He has the nerve to ask.

Your emotions all come rushing back to you at once.

“You didn’t wake up this morning,” you accuse, trying to stay stern though your voice wavers as tears start to brim your eyes.

His brows furrow, frown pulling his lips down. “I’m sorry…?”

You can’t help the laugh that passes you, endeared and relieved, as your head drops gently against his.

A teardrop falls from your eye onto his cheek and his gaze only grows more worried.

He doesn’t understand how even melancholy looks so beautiful on you.

His trembling hand reaches up and brushes away the water that gathers at your lashline. “Why are you crying?”

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper, turning your face to seek out the warmth in his palm.

His hand presses into your cheek, turning you to face him again. “Your Highness,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet his before he goes on. “I’ve told you. It’s my duty to protect—”

“I don’t want to lose you!”

He stops, watching you with wide eyes as you pull away from him and drop your gaze to his chest, face twisted with fear and a desperation he’s not sure he’s ever seen from you. A desperation for him.

“I don’t want to lose you, Shota,” you repeat, and he feels his heartbeat rise, like it’s coming alive again from your words alone.

He wants desperately for you to mean what he wants you to mean. But he knows it's a far cry, a foolish dream of a foolish man in love with someone that can never be his.

“Princess,” he tries again, unable to hold back the fear that trembles his own voice. Even if he can’t have you, he needs you to know you have him. “I won’t go anywhere,” he vows. “I won’t leave your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

“What if that’s not enough?” You ask him, and his heart stutters with hope again.

It needs to be killed before it can make a permanent home in his chest. “What do you mean?” He asks with bated breath.

He watches your eyes turn glassy again. He wants to reach over and catch the tears before they can fall, but he doesn’t. He simply waits, like he’s been waiting for you for all these years.

“I want you, Shota,” you whisper and Shota knows then that the wait was worth it. “I know I shouldn’t… But I want you.”

Maybe his hope isn’t misplaced like he’s led himself to believe.

He reaches up to brush his knuckles against your rosy cheek, catching the tears as they fall. “I have been yours since the day I first saw you, Princess.”

The kiss is soft, dulcet like this night and reverent in a way that leaves him wanting to pray for more. But like this—with you in his arms, the warmth of your body over his, and the softness of your hair threaded between his fingers—Shota thinks he could die in that moment a happier man than any.

𓆩⟡𓆪

“So. You and my sister.”

Shota pauses with his mouth hung open, fork lifted halfway as his eyes flit up to Jongseob who stands above his bed with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

When he doesn’t say anything, Jongseob raises a brow. In response, Shota shoves the spoonful of food in his mouth and quickly averts his eyes.

Jongseob scoffs, dropping down to sit at the foot of the bed.

“You know you don’t have to hide it from me,” Jongseob says. “I’ve been watching you pine after her since we were kids.”

Shota flushes, swallowing down his food. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Jongseob gives him an offended look that Shota just smiles sheepishly at.

“Sorry. The Princess is adamant that no one finds out.”

Jongseob makes a face. “You still call her that? You don’t call her by her name?”

“She hasn’t given me permission yet.”

“Dear gods,” Jongseob sighs, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “I’m pretty sure she’s waiting for you to use it first.”

“But that would be improper.”

“What about any of this is proper to you?”

Shota goes quiet before he scarfs down another spoon of rice. “Point taken,” he muffles around his mouthful to which Jongseob scrunches his nose.

“She hasn’t taught you manners yet?” He asks then bats away the foot that Shota sends his way.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Dog is basically in your job description. You’re at her beck and call and you follow her around like an emotionally attached puppy.”

“Oh? Like you and your little baker?”

It’s Jongseob’s turn to freeze up. He even turns a little pale and Shota smiles, self satisfied as he places his emptied tray on his bedside table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jongseob says quickly, trying to recover as he clears his throat and straightens his back.

“Sorry to say but you’re not exactly subtle with your lovey eyes,” he giggles.

“They’re not lovey eyes,” Jongseob snaps, a little too harshly than he’s used to from him, and Shota realizes he may have stepped on something he shouldn’t have.

But he can’t help his curiosity. “What is it then?”

The pause before his response gives him enough of an answer. “It’s nothing at all.”

Shota can almost feel the ache in Jongseob's eyes, the familiar weight he’s used to seeing in his friend’s gaze ever since they were kids.

“Seobie—”

“You’re still here?”

Both their gazes shift over to you as you barge in through the door unannounced. Shota immediately lights up at the sight of you, adorned in your blue dress and colour-stained apron with your sketchpad and pastels gathered in your arms.

Jongseob scoffs, rising to his feet. “As if you don’t hog him for practically every hour of the day.”

“Don’t you have a maid to play with?”

Jongseob rears back like he’s about to start yelling, but he cuts himself off with a deep sigh. “Whatever,” he grumbles, marching past you for the door. “Have fun.”

“Jongseob,” Shota calls before he can leave.

Jongseob pauses in his tracks to look back, and Shota doesn’t have to say much at all for Jongseob to understand.

He gives a nod and a tiny smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” he says, before he turns and shuts the door behind him, leaving Shota in the silence with you.

“...Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” You ask, eyes on the door where Jongseob just was.

“Maybe,” he hums, but everything else that isn’t you fades from his mind as soon as your gaze meets his.

You give him that shy, awkward smile of yours—a new and wonderful discovery—as you move to take your designated space at the foot of his bed.

It’s been a recurring sight for the past five days; you across from him with your book and pastels and graphites, sometimes tea, drenched in the dying sunlight from the window by his med-room bed.

It was a routine that eased his antsy limbs. He was bursting at the seams with unused energy, advised to keep movement minimal for two weeks, but whenever you were in the picture, you instilled him with a calm he wasn’t used to feeling.

“I have the rest of the day clear,” you tell him as you flip your book open to your unfinished sketch from yesterday.

“You have it clear or you cleared it?” He teases, leaning back against the headboard.

You scoff, though your smile gives him an answer, as you lift your pencil. “Don’t even get me started. There’s three weeks left until the wedding and it looks like Taeyang is finally attempting to court her. After all this time and drama!”

Shota laughs. “That sounds about as expected.”

There’s a quiet lull as he simply watches you work, just the rhythmic sounds of graphite on parchment filling the air. He smiles fondly when he catches a peek of your tongue caught between your lips, a habit of concentration of yours that he’s written into his heart.

“How’s the painting going?” He asks after a stretch of silence.

You pause, looking up at him. “Oh, I’d been meaning to ask you. What’s your favourite colour?”

Shota doesn’t have a favourite colour.

But his eyes catch onto the royal blue of your dress, the way it makes you glow, and he smiles, leaning forward. “Blue,” he answers. He lifts his hand, brushing his fingers against the low collar of your dress. He lets his touch linger, the pad of his finger ghosting over a sliver of your exposed skin as he catches your gaze, hazy as it falls to his lips. “This one,” he whispers.

The silence that follows is charged and heavy. But it doesn’t last long before your lips meet his with a needy grunt, your hands fisting into the collars of his shirt.

This is his favourite part of the routine. When you push aside everything on your lap to move over and make home in his, though careful so as not to hurt him.

But it’s different today. Your movements are hastier as you clamber on to straddle him but Shota welcomes you just as enthusiastically, the dull throb of his wound shoved to the back of his mind in favour of the feeling of your body pressed against his.

The kiss is hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue, a tangle of heavy breaths and needy moans. Your hands feel like they’re all over him, his own planted firmly on your hips to keep himself from traipsing into dangerous territories.

“Shota,” you breathe into his lips and Shota nearly moans at just the sound of his name like that on your tongue.

He hums in response, and you bury your hand in his hair, slowing the kiss.

He makes a questioning noise but he gets his answer when you take his hand in yours, sliding it up your body to place it on your chest.

Shota nearly loses his mind, when at the same time, you roll your hips down against the growing hardness straining under his cotton trousers.

He groans, tossing his head back at the pleasure that sears through his body, hot and wanting. His hand kneads your breast, pulling a sweet moan of your own from your lips.

“Princess,” he breathes when your lips meet his neck, a clumsy but insistent declaration. Things have never gone this far before.

You lift your head, lips latching onto the lobe of his ear. “I want you,” you whisper, grinding down against him once more, and Shota nearly forgets that they’re still in the med-room, a semi-public space.

And he would give in, damn it all, if it weren’t for the sharp footsteps approaching the room.

You must hear them too, because you immediately lift your head and stare at him wide eyed before your senses kick in and you both pry yourselves away from each other.

Shota winces at the sudden movement but he settles back as you reclaim your sketchpad at the other end of the bed just in time as Prince Jiung pokes in through the door.

“Hi,” Jiung chirps and Shota hastily pulls his pillow over his lap, waving back with a strained smile.

You don’t lift your head from your book as you grumble out, “What do you want?”

Jiung’s eyes scour the room, lingering towards the back end before he asks, “Is the healer here?”

You lift your head then and stare at your brother with a look so intensely judgmental that Jiung bristles and straightens with a cough.

“Seems not. I just had a question about…” He trails off weakly before he just turns and walks right out.

As soon as the door shuts, Shota lets out the breath he’s been holding. But the steady thrum of heat in his veins lingers, roaring back to life when he looks at you again.

But you don’t meet his eye, fiddling with the pencil in your hand, gaze afar in thought.

“Princess?” He asks and your eyes snap up to his, blinking rapidly. “Are you alright?”

You let out a slow breath before smiling at him, though it isn’t one of those musical ones that he loves. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t believe you.

He feels the lie weigh on his chest. But he reminds himself that it's not his place to pry.

“Actually, I should be going,” you say, gathering your things, and he feels the weight sink further.

He just watches as you rise up and make way for the door.

“Princess,” he calls out. You pause at the door, turning to him. “I’ll be returning to my duties in a few days.”

Relief comes to him instantly when the smile that lifts on your lips is one of genuine joy. “Good. I look forward to having you by my side again.”

Those words are enough to lull him to a peaceful sleep that night, and forgone are his worries. For now.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You couldn’t feel more relieved to have Shota by your side again. Though it brings a set of new challenges. No longer do you have the med-room to shield your stolen kisses and unbound words. You’re only left with lingering gazes and subtle touches to get you through your day.

Even if you find a hidden corner to tuck yourself away in for a few heated moments, passersby leave you scrambling to right yourself before you’re caught. The castle is much too crowded now for you to remain hidden without four walls.

But it still feels exhilarating; living in a secret. As scared as the thought of getting caught makes you, you love the way it makes the blood rush to your head. It makes everything feel like… more.

“Shota,” you moan, burying your face into his neck.

His fingers dig harder into your hips as he pushes you further into the marble pillar, his own breathy grunts echoing through the empty hallway.

The bundles of twine that you were supposed to bring down to the ballroom lay abandoned at your feet on the floor of the nook that you’d dragged Shota into. It’s not your fault he decided to wear half of his hair tied up with stray pieces framing his face tantalizingly. He looked too good for you to not do anything about it.

You gasp sharply when he presses his leg harder between your own, his thigh pressing insistently against your clothed core.

“Quiet,” he hisses into your ear, though the guiding hands he has on your hips urge you to rock faster against him. “You’re going to get us caught.”

You dig your hand into his hair, fingers gripping the soft locks tight as you sink your teeth into the fabric of his shirt to muffle your moans. All while he chases his own pleasure by rolling his hardness against your hip.

“Unless,” he breathes, pausing to chuckle as one hand climbs up your body to knead harshly at your chest. He traces the tip of his tongue against the shell of your ear, whispering the words right into you, “You want to get caught.”

The words, along with the sharp push of his leg against you, leave a spike of hot pleasure crashing through your body. You cut your needy whine right off before it can alert the entire wing of your scandalous escapade.

He simply laughs, digging his thumb right into your nipple, the pressure overbearing even through the layers of your clothes.

“That’s it isn’t it? This is what gets you off,” he coos.

His voice is so sweet, so soft and melodious that it might sound like he was reciting poetry if not for his filthy words. The silver tongue on him was a revelation you weren’t expecting, but one that makes you lose your mind.

“You want everyone to see what a whore their darling Princess turns for me?”

Before the moan can leave your lips, he takes a fistfull of your hair and pulls you back to devour it with his mouth.

You’re right there on the precipice, just about to take the leap as he rocks you to the edge—

“Where is she? She said she would be bringing them down.”

—Until it all comes crashing down.

The heat of Shota’s body tears away from you all at once and you would crumble to the ground if not for the wall behind you.

You quickly right yourself, gasping for air to soothe your body as you pick up the bundles of twine. You glance over to Shota, who looks completely unmarred if not for the blush high on his cheeks, the bitten look on his lips, and the simmering lust behind his gaze—the only evidence that you’ve made him undone just as he has you.

He smiles at you as the footsteps of the maids draw closer. It’s not over yet.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Except that it was.

That’s how it always goes and now it’s been over a week of being left dangling off the precipice.

It was the same song and dance—sneaking off in the middle of your tasks for a quick second of pleasure that goes incomplete.

And Shota’s had just about enough. He knows you’re as pent up as he is. And even if this whole arrangement between you was just a mere chase for thrill and excitement for you, he’d happily comply, even if it isn’t sustainable for his heart.

He’ll have you any way he can get you before you realize you don’t truly feel for him, that you were just caught up in the adrenaline of him saving your life, and move on without him.

He’s well prepared for that. He’s okay with just being your temporary fixation, even though the weight lies heavier with each day that passes that he doesn’t tell you that he loves you and wants more.

He can’t go messing up what he already has.

These thoughts carry with him as Shota turns into the hallway leading to your room to take over for the night guard.

Until Jiung intercepts him.

“Shota,” Jiung says, catching sight of him across the hall where his office leads from. “Can I see you for a moment?"

Shota thinks he’s done for.

Did he get caught? Did you finally have enough of him and want to have him reassigned? Or did he mess up all on his own somehow?

It turns out to be none of that.

“I got to thinking after your heroic display for my sister,” Jiung says as he settles in his chair, Shota watching him from where he stands across his desk. “We could use more men like you in the War Guard.”

Shota blinks. The War Guard?

That’s an elite status reserved for the best and strongest soldiers in the country.

“Are—” Shota clears his throat when his voice cracks. He stands straighter, confusion etching his face. “What are you implying, Your Highness?”

Jiung smiles at his fluster, leaning back. “I want to offer you a starting position there. You’re incredibly capable. And having known the kind of man your father is, I see him in you. Honestly, I was going to offer it to you eventually anyway but I thought I’d give you an advance.”

Shota finds himself grinning, overjoyed at the opportunity.

“You’d start training after the wedding when you’re relieved of dealing with my sister. How does that sound?”

But it all falls away when he’s reminded of you.

Of course it sounded too good to be true. Joining the War Guard means training for a few years out in the outskirts of the country for a specialized program. That means leaving you.

But he reminds himself that he would have been reassigned from you after the wedding regardless. That this would be an opportunity for him to actually do something with himself rather than mope around from heartbreak because you were done with him.

This is the logical choice, right?

“Shota?” Jiung urges, brows furrowed.

Shota realizes his emotions must show on his face, so he shoulders the weight on his chest and puts on his best smile.

“It would be an honour, Your Highness.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

When you open your doors to Jiho that morning, you know something’s wrong.

It can’t be training, because now Shota takes you along with him where you can sit in the courtyard and enjoy the scenery (the gardens and the cut marble of a man you have as your lover).

So you pull Jiho in tow with you to visit the guard quarters, but Shota isn’t there. Neither is he at any of your planned schedules that day. No one seems to know where he is and you can’t find Jiung either to ask him. And Jongseob is useless as always.

So you spend your day positively miffed, putting Jiho to work while you spend your time huffing over the smallest things and worrying about where Shota could possibly be.

It makes you more upset than you realized. It doesn’t help that you woke up with a craving for him you cannot subdue on your own.

But beyond that, you miss him. You feel wrong without him at your side. It’s everything you felt that first day he’d abandoned you, powered up to a hundred. You feel angry.

The aggression shows through the strokes of your paint, a faint pink over lush greens.

Your painting for him is slowly coming together. It’s nearly done, actually, but right now you don’t feel like putting love into it.

So you drop your brush and your palette, not even bothering to clean them off as you pry your apron off.

A sharp knocking on your window makes you pause. You look over at your drawn curtains, frowning.

When the knocking persists, you take the candelabrum from your table and wield it over your head as you cautiously step closer.

You hold it up, ready to strike as you rip open your curtains only to be met with the sight of Shota perched on the windowsill, out of his usual armour and in a simple shirt and trousers.

Relief washes over you first, then the same giddiness you feel whenever you see him, and then comes the simmering anger from being abandoned yet again.

You open the lock to your window and let him slide it open to climb his way through. The arm holding the candelabrum drops to your side as you watch him straighten himself up after shutting the window behind him.

“Where the hell were you?” You snap, and Shota lifts his eyes, wide and a little guilty.

“I took the day off,” he tells you meekly. “Did Prince Jiung not tell you?”

Your hand tightens around the candelabrum, gaze dropping to it to avoid holding his. Was he already getting sick of you?

“No, he didn’t,” you mumble, a bitter taste rising on your tongue.

He steps forward, tilting your chin up with his finger. There’s a soft smile on his lips. “Were you missing me, Princess?”

“Yes,” you admit quietly, and the mirth in his eye dwindles. “Did you… need a break from me?”

His eyes widen, looking utterly scandalized at the insinuation. “No! No, it's not like that,” he insists, taking your elbows in his hands. But there’s a hesitance in his voice as he continues. “I just had some things to do.”

”I get that,” you say quietly, your gaze lowering again. “But I wish you’d told me before I spent the whole day worrying about you.”

The soft brush of his hand slides up to your cheek, tilting your gaze up to his again. He has that reverent look in his eyes whenever he has you in his vicinity, the one that makes you weak to him.

“You really must have missed me,” he tries to tease, but it falls too gently.

“I don’t like it without you. Promise me you won’t leave me like that again.”

His eyes flash with something you can’t discern and his expression falls for just a moment. But it goes too quickly for you to dissect before he smiles at you again, bright like the moon behind him. He takes the candelabrum from your hand to place it back on the table.

“You have me now,” he tells you and the zip of electricity that his low voice sends through you makes you forget whatever it is you were asking for.

The craving you’d buried away in your body reawakens and you remember all at once just how pent up you’ve been for the past week of sneaking around.

But you finally have him alone. In the walls of your own room.

“I thought it was improper for you to be in here,” you murmur, taking a step back when he steps forward.

The smile on his lips is deceptively sweet. “I can think of a lot more improper things I’d like to do right now, Princess.”

You gasp softly when the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. The heat of his body pushes into your space, not quite touching, but it hovers over you like an enticing wall of heat.

Your voice doesn’t allow for more than a whisper. “Like what?”

His eyes trace down the length of your body, taking in your curves like he was committing them to memory.

“It might be easier if I just showed you.”

Before you can even take a breath, he grabs you by the waist and turns you around, pushing down your shoulder to bend you over the edge of your bed. His hand is firm against your back as he glides his heavy palm down the length of your spine and rests it on the dip of your lower back.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he says, pulling a moan out of your throat when you feel his hardening arousal pressing flush over your clothed cunt. “But I’ve grown impatient.”

Each delicious grind of his hips against yours makes your eyes rolling back at the pleasure that sears through you, your fingers clawing into the sheets.

His hand brushes aside your hair to hastily tug down the zipper of your dress. You’re grateful you hadn’t bothered with a corset today when he traces his fingers down the bare skin of your spine, sending tendrils of electricity through your body that only add to your growing heat.

“Shota,” you whine as his other hand finds its way up the skirt of your dress, trailing up the back of your thigh. You gasp when he grabs at the flesh of your ass, kneading it harshly, the pressure going right to your cunt.

He lets out a breath, his thumb inching dangerously close to your heat. “Yes, Princess?” You can tell by the shake of his voice and his hand that he’s exercising the last of his restraint, the skirt still covering you.

But you need it all. You push back, rocking your ass against his hardened erection and chasing that pressure once more. It gets a guttural groan out of him as he presses forward to chase the feeling.

“Need you,” you whimper, and it seems to break his resolve.

You hear a thud behind you but you’re too distracted to turn around because he pushes your skirt over your hips, exposing you fully. You gasp at the cold air that brushes against your bare cunt, then cry out when you suddenly feel his mouth against you, devouring your essence with his tongue.

There’s no lead in, no easing you into it. No, he laps at you like a starved man, tracing every curve of you with his tongue as his fingers dig into and hold down your trembling thighs.

You cry out his name when his lips latch around your throbbing clit and sucks, the pressure driving you towards an orgasm quicker than you’re prepared for.

But he teases you on that edge, dragging his tongue back up to your drooling lips to circle and tongue at your entrance and draw you away from that high.

The soft whimpers and harsh breaths that pull out of you soak into your sheets. He sounds just as affected as you, his own grunts and soft moans adding zips of pleasure against your sensitive skin, like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are.

It makes you feel manic with need.

“Sh-Shota,” you gasp as you feel that heat in your lower belly tighten. He only hums in response before latching onto your clit once again and flicking the tip of his tongue against it, pushing you right over the precipice like you’d been desperately wanting for the past few weeks.

You come with another cry of his name, fluttering around nothing, and he laps up your release as it comes, licking you through your high until you’re left trembling and whimpering.

He only pulls back when your sounds teeter towards pain. But you don’t get much time to recover before you’re flipped onto your back and the dress gets ripped off of your body.

He towers over you, hungry eyes wide as they rove over your bare body.

You flush under the intensity of his gaze, turning to curl in on yourself but he grabs your hips and holds you down.

“Don’t,” he snaps, breaths coming out heavy. “I want to see you.” The next words come out breathy and with such worship that you burn. “You’re beautiful down to every crevice, aren’t you?”

“Shota,” you whisper, feeling just a little more than dizzy. His wide eyes snap up to yours. “I-I’ve never…”

Understanding dawns on his face and the smile that grows on his lips is softer than he’d just sounded. “I know, Princess. I’ll be—“

“My name.”

He blinks, tilting his head in a manner that’s far too cute for the context. “Hm?”

“My name,” you repeat with a frown. “Use my name.”

His smile widens, a delighted giggle falling through it. And then he says your name, so softly and so reverently that you think you fall for him all over again.

Then his eyes darken all at once as he stands to his full height.

You’re reminded of your situation when you’re met with the intimidating ridge of his arousal prodding against his slacks.

You watch, entranced, as his long fingers start to undo his shirt button by button. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do this to you?” He asks you, like it's a simple question.

You swallow, your eyes stuck to each sliver of hardened muscle that gets exposed with each button that comes undone.

“No,” you answer quietly, the breath getting stuck at your throat when he rids himself of the shirt, his pale skin glowing against the moonlight.

He lifts onto the bed on his knees. You scramble back but he only closes in until you hit the headboard, trapped between it and the daunting shadow of him.

“Years,” he answers, pressing a palm over himself to relieve some of the pressure. He lets out a soft, breathy groan as he presses down on it but his eyes remain steadfast on you.

Your mouth practically waters at the sight of him. “That’s not very proper of you,” you try to bite, but it comes out weak.

He laughs, dry and amused. “You’ll have to forgive me then.”

Then he takes your knees and pushes them open, lowering himself on his stomach between your parted legs and you feel yourself burn at the thought of his mouth on you again.

His eyes land on your glistening cunt where you feel yourself already dripping once more under all his attention. “I’ll repent later,” he murmurs, then reaches forward and lets his fingers brush against you.

You gasp, skin still sensitive and recovering from your previous orgasm, legs moving to close but he grabs your thigh with his other hand and spreads you apart again.

His eyes snap up to you, dark and heated as he tells you, “Stay still. I need to open you up.”

He doesn’t let you linger on what that might mean before you feel his fingertips tease at your entrance, gathering the slick that's started to pool there.

Your mouth falls open, a deep moan lifting from the depths of your lungs when one of his fingers starts to press in, sheathing itself slowly to the hilt.

It makes you feel impossibly full, even though it’s just one finger, against your unbreached walls. You clench down around him as the stings of pain start to quickly dwindle away into a sharp pressure that’s almost pleasurable.

“That’s it, darling,” he coos softly, eyes locked onto the way you flutter around his finger. “You’ve gotta take more, don’t you?”

Your fingers clench into the sheets as he slowly pulls that finger out then pushes it all the way back in in a slow drag that has your thigh twitching under his hold.

You whimper as he soothes his thumb against your skin in slow, consoling circles. If just one of his fingers feels this overwhelming, you think there’s no way you’ll be able to take him.

He starts to fuck it in and out of you at a slow and steady paces, watching as your slick gathers at the base of his knuckle every time he pushes all the way in.

When your discomforted whines give way to soft moans, he quickens the pace. And just like that, with soft praises and careful touches, he works all the way up to three fingers.

He has you trembling by then, moaning and creaming around his knuckles as he pistons three fingers into your needy, sopping cunt.

“Gonna come for me again, my love?” He asks you, sounding almost as ruined as you, as he crooks his fingers inside of you and drives them in even harder.

You cry out, body arching off the bed as you tense all over, pulsating rapidly around his digits.

“That’s right,” he says with a manic laugh, all too pleased with how quickly he’s tearing you apart. “Come for me. Do it again.”

And you do, with a sweet wail of his name, as his still moving fingers fuck you through it.

He watches, entranced, just how much you gush around him. He only slows down when you shake like a leaf, bucking away from his touch. Hesitantly, he pulls his fingers out, staring at the coat of you glistening over his skin.

His neglected cock pulses at the sight of you all liquid and already fucked out under him, breathing for relief from the raging heat.

It’s too bad he has other plans. But he lets you recover for a moment.

He swipes his fingers through your twitching cunt, gathering your slick before he slides that hand into his slacks and grabs ahold of himself, groaning softly at the pressure.

He glides the moisture along his cock before he uses it to stroke himself to relieve some of the unbearable pressure.

When he looks up at you, you’re already watching him with inquisitive eyes.

He chuckles at the cute pout on your lips. “See what you do to me?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You drive me mad.”

“Shota,” your thin voice calls, and his dick twitches in his hand.

“Yes, love?”

When you part your legs further for him and tell him in that soft, quiet voice that you, “Need him,” he nearly cums on the spot.

But he quickly grabs himself at the base and takes a deep breath to ease himself down. No, he can’t lose so easily. He needs to take you, to give you what you want—no, need.

So he rises to his knees and rids himself of his final layers, exposing himself in full to you. He preens at your wide, prying eyes and the gasp that you give at the sight of him.

He wraps his hand around himself once more, giving himself a few slow tugs as he shuffles to settle between your parted legs.

“Ready for me?” He asks you and your eyes snap up to his, almost fearful. “Don’t worry, you can take me.”

He swallows your little whimper with a deep kiss, lowering his body to press against yours. The closeness seems to settle you, your arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him in.

He practically melts against your warmth, humming in content as your tongue licks its way into his mouth. He kneads gently at the flesh of your waist, kissing you languidly, thoroughly for a moment of blissful connection.

He could live like this forever. In your arms, in your warmth, kissing you like there’s nowhere to be.

But the reminder that this is borrowed time rears its ugly head and he pulls back, looking down at you. He wishes he could paint it—your flushed cheeks, the ruined look in your eye, the glisten of your lips. And he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

He brings a hand to your cheek, his thumb gliding against the plush of your lower lip.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

You don’t think you’ll be ready until it’s done. So with a steadying breath, you nod, bracing yourself for the pressure.

But it doesn’t come just yet. He presses another soft, lingering kiss to your lips before he reaches down and guides himself through your slick folds.

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling, your hands clutching onto his hard shoulders when his tip catches against your entrance.

When he presses his forehead to yours with a silent question in his eye, you respond by wrapping your legs against his waist.

The first push, the first inch feels like it blows your whole world apart.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the searing pain, nails digging into his skin as a ragged groan slips from your parted mouth. His fingers weren’t nearly enough to prepare you for his girth.

“Shh.” He presses a soothing kiss to your heated cheek. “You can take it, love. Just breathe for me.”

You do. Slow and deep, and as he settles his full length into you, it feels like he’s carving out a permanent space for himself inside your body.

And despite the pain, despite the overwhelming pressure, you welcome it.

He settles with a groan and keeps still, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “You’re so tight,” he mutters through a strained grunt.

“Shota,” you sniffle, feeling your eyes prickle with tears.

“I know, love, I’m sorry,” he breathes into your ear, kissing the shell of it. He cards one hand through your hair before cradling it against him. “It’ll feel better soon. Promise.”

Slowly, it does. Your body eases around him, welcoming him instead of rejecting, and the pain eases into an overwhelming pressure, a deep ache that itches to be settled.

When you feel that ache deep in your gut start to pulse with want, when the walls of your cunt start to flutter with need, you slowly rock your hips up.

Shota lets out a stuttered grunt, his hand finding your hip, the other staying pressed to your hair.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then moves.

The pain flares back at the first thrust, but it slowly eases away as he starts to gently fuck you. In and out, a lax rhythm that has your bodies rocking together in sweltering heat and breathless moans.

You wrap your arms around his shoulder, body trembling under him as you take what he gives.

“There you go,” he whispers, slow as he starts to pick up the pace. “Told you, didn’t I? You—fuck—you’re taking me so well.”

You whimper at his words, unable to speak. But your body talks for you, your cunt fluttering around him with each mind numbingly deep thrust, your hand digging into his hair and gripping down hard.

He gets the hint. And he starts to fuck you in earnest now, a steady pace that has his hips snapping against yours and thrashing your body up with each firm thrust.

“Knew you’d be so good,” he breathes, words slurred like he’s not really sure what he’s saying, lost in the throes of his own pleasure in the heat of your warm walls. “Knew you take me so—so well. So good for me…”

Your tears start to fall, whether from his words, whether from the pleasure, you don’t care.

Because you feel that band in your gut pull tighter for the third time tonight and you need nothing more than for him to fuck it broken.

“Shota,” you sob, clenching tightly around him. His hips stutter as he groans, hands flying down to your hips. “More.”

That’s all it takes for him to lose his composure.

He pushes your hips down to the bed, lifting his upper body to look down at your wanting body, then starts to fuck you into your mattress, hard and uncaring for the loud moans that it pulls from your lips, for the way the bed knocks dangerously against the walls.

All he can focus on is fucking you to tatters with single minded focus, chasing his own pleasure in the wet heat. But he focuses on you first. He can tell you’re close from the way you thrash under him and sob his name, watery gaze distant and needy.

So he reaches between your bodies to thumb at your clit. It takes only a few quick circles to make you pulse and come over his cock with his name on your lips, again.

It brings him down and he spills deep inside you, frantically fucking both of you through your highs.

Even when he’s milked himself dry and worn himself to the bone, laying limp against your body, he keeps himself buried inside of you, because gods know he needs to savour every bit of you while he still can.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The days that come pass by like a rapidly ticking clock. Every moment with you feels like another one he’s stolen, that doesn’t belong to him. It starts feeling like he’s taken more than the universe would allow for.

But Shota hides his anxieties well enough to keep you happy for however long he can. Making you laugh, easing your daily burdens, giving you pleasure—it’s enough to make him feel like he’s stealing for a just cause. And that's fine, he’d steal the damn skies to keep you content if he had to.

He just hates that he can’t keep his own happiness. But he knew since he was a young boy that his love for you would go unfulfilled. He should be grateful he even gets this much.

The wedding is in a few days. And with how busy things are, he doesn’t get much time to sneak away with you.

He can feel that familiar craving for you prickling at his fingertips, the need to hold you despite having been in your bed just last night.

Maybe it's the knowledge that there’s not much time left that has his need for you grow tenfold. Or maybe it's just you.

He switches station with Jiho, who scurries off with a quick nod, and takes his place in front of your door. Like clockwork, at the dawn of the same hour, you open your doors with a sunny smile. Today’s one seems brighter than usual.

“Shota!” You exclaim, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him in.

He stumbles in, caught completely off guard by your sudden pull but he straightens himself before he can tumble down. He turns around just as you shut the doors behind him, eyes wide.

“Princess?” He glances at the door as you make your way across your room. He never enters through the door, save for that first time, and he’s never here in the morning. “Someone could have seen.”

“Nonsense,” you dismiss, making your way to the corner of your room where your art is stationed. “Now will you come over here?”

He watches you for a moment—your fidgety demeanour, the manic glint in your eye, and the shadows under them.

A teasing smile crawls onto his lips as he slowly approaches. “Did you not get sleep last night? I didn’t keep you up that late.” He pauses. “This time.”

The flush on your cheeks is immediate. He preens internally at getting the prickly princess to lose her composure so quickly.

“No, it’s not that,” you say hastily, swatting him with the paint stained rag in your hand when he closes in. “I was working on your painting.”

His eyes widen, an eager anticipation waking under his skin. “Really? It’s done?”

“Yes,” you say sheepishly, turning to the tarp covered canvas. “I haven’t been able to find much time and I definitely wouldn’t have had the time for it for the next few days, so I stayed up last night. I was considering just waiting until after the wedding but…” You trail off with a shy smile. “I got too excited thinking about it last night.”

Your hand fidgets with the end of the tarp and he realizes with a wave of fondness that you’re nervous.

Shota grins, unable to stop the joy at being on the receiving end of so much effort. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’s beautiful. Everything you do is.”

You scrunch your nose, trying and failing to smother your smile. “Don’t speak so quickly.” You turn to the painting, taking a breath like you’re bracing yourself, before you pull the tarp off.

It’s a blue night over a lake, the moon full and bright at the centre made of actual moonbeam petals. The lake looks nearly alive, shimmering under the moon like it’s made of twinkling waves in real time. The land surrounding the lake is littered with flowers made of petals. Tulip and rose, he thinks. He recalls the first day he’d come into your room, the day you’d both hauled up baskets of mangled flowers and loose petals.

“It’s called Moonbeam,” you tell him with a smile in your voice. “This might sound silly but you remind me of the moon.”

It’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.

His hand raises instinctively to touch, but he stops himself and looks at you. “May I?”

You grin, giving him a short shrug. “It’s yours. Do as you please.”

The words should make him ecstatic. Instead, they fill him with dread. Because now, when he looks back at the painting, it feels more like a parting gift. A present wrapped neatly to conclude your time together, a thank you for the past few months of excitement and pleasure. But how can that be if you don’t know he’s leaving?

You said it yourself, you were planning on finishing it after the wedding and giving it to him then. Like you assumed he would just… be there. Was he supposed to? Did you want him to?

“Shota?” Your voice calls gently. Your hand reaches up to brush away the wetness at his cheek. He hadn’t realized that he started crying. “Are you okay? I mean, I know I did well, but I didn’t think it was that—”

“I’m leaving,” he says, because he can’t keep it in anymore. He keeps his eyes on deep blue waters, unable to meet yours. “After the wedding. I’m leaving.”

You’re not sure you’re hearing him right. Or maybe you don’t want to have heard him right.

“Leaving,” you repeat, breathing around the heavy thudding that grows in your chest. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Like on a trip?”

He lowers his head, teary eyes guilt-ridden as he swipes away the water at his cheek. “Your brother offered me a position in the War Guard. I accepted. It will take me across the country for a few years.”

You take a step back, the weight in your chest feeling more suffocating by the second. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His eyes snap up to you, riddled with confusion. “Wha—”

“You can still visit, right?” You ask, clenching your fists tight when they start to tremble at your sides. The way he’s speaking of this sounds too permanent for your liking. But surely he can’t mean that he’s leaving for good. Why would he? Has he actually become sick of you?

“Visit?” He asks quietly. “You want me to visit?”

“Yes,” you snap and he flinches. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

You’re not angry, but your panic is manifesting as anger, and you don’t know how to stop it. You hate that you’re causing that twisted expression on his face, but you also hate where this conversation seems to be going, and you don’t know how to stop it. You feel helpless.

“I thought…” He starts, then stops. You can’t make out the emotions in his face; they’re too conflicting. “I’m only your guard for the wedding. Did you think I would stay?”

Your stomach feels like a pit. Your body feels like it wants to collide in on itself, trembling all over. “Was I wrong to think that you would?”

He looks down. “I don’t see why you’d want me to.”

The answer comes easier than you think. And only after you say it do you realize the truth you’ve been harbouring.

“Because I love you.”

But it only seems to hurt him. “No. You don’t.”

Anger rushes louder in your veins. “What the hell?” You seethe and he flinches again, taking a step back. “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”

His gaze snaps up to you, fueled with a fire you’re not used to from him. “You don’t love me,” he insists, taking a step forward. You hold your ground. “You love what I did for you. You might think that you love me, Princess.” As quick as it came, his fight leaves him. His shoulders slump, eyes growing solemn once more as he whispers, “But you don’t.”

The silence feels tangible, too bright with the sun spilling through your windows, and it makes you feel misplaced. It makes this whole conversation feel misplaced.

But you know that your feelings aren’t.

“I don’t love you, is it?” You ask, and he lowers his head again. “Do you love me?”

He lets out a wry laugh. “I have since we were kids.” It sounds strained. Painful, almost, to admit it.

“That’s all I need, then.”

Determined, you turn away and start to your door. It takes a moment, but then you hear him scrambling after you as you march your way out of your room and towards the offices.

“Princess?” Shota asks behind you, panicked more than confused. “What do you mean?”

You ignore him as you speed up, leaving his “Where are you going?” unanswered as you make your way to Taeyang’s office.

“Brother!” You call as soon as you barge into his office, Shota scrambling in after you.

Taeyang lifts his head from where he had it cradled in his hands. He looks worse for wear. With how busy you and the West Princess had become, you hadn’t had the time to dissect his relationship with her so you really don’t know what stage of denial he’s in now. Nor do you really care at the moment, but it doesn’t seem good.

Taeyang furrows his brows, letting out an irritated breath. “Do you women not understand the etiquette of closed doors?”

“You’re in love, aren’t you?” You barrel on, and that takes Taeyang aback, his eyes snapping wide.

“What nonsense are you—”

“With your fiancée,” you elaborate.

He scowls at you and you wither just a little, realizing you might not be going in the right direction.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business—”

“But you do understand what it is to be in love, yes?”

“Princess,” you hear Shota’s voice whisper behind you, small and scared, but you ignore it.

“What’s your point?” Taeyang asks sharply, and you start to lose a bit of your bite. But you stumble on regardless.

“I am in love.”

The admission feels foreign on your tongue but also like it belongs right there. You hear Shota’s sharp exhale behind you, but the room stays otherwise silent for a stretched moment.

“...Congratulations,” Taeyang says after a moment, his brows furrowing. “Um.” He clears his throat. “Would you like a gift?”

You blink. “Are you not concerned who it is?”

“Should I be?”

You take a step aside to reveal Shota to him, not that he was hidden behind your smaller stature, but the point still stands.

Taeyang’s brows shoot up behind his hair, alarmed at the revelation. “Your guard?”

“I know father won’t approve–”

“You’re damn right he wouldn’t!”

“—but that won’t change anything!” Your breaths feel stuck in your throat as you scramble to make your plea. “Look, brother, I know you don’t like me very much and—”

“Woah, hold on a second—” He’s rising from his chair but you can’t see much past the blur of your tears and the fog of your panic.

“—I know we don’t see eye to eye, and I know you don’t approve of this, but I just need you to hear me out just once—”

You’re cut off when two arms engulf you and hold you to a warm chest.

You freeze. You can’t remember the last time Taeyang held you, if he ever has.

Your emotion bears too much for you to contain. So you let it out into his chest in quiet, defeated sobs and he holds you tighter.

His voice is soft as he speaks into your hair. “Now what gave you that silly idea?”

You crumble, arms finally winding around his waist and clinging on.

“I don’t know,” you sniffle, feeling completely off centre. “I know I can be difficult.”

He laughs wryly, breaths bristling your hair. “That runs in the family,” he states lightly before pulling back to take your face in his hands.

You don’t meet his eye, too ashamed at your outburst.

“I’m sorry I gave you that idea,” he says, thumbing away the tear-tracks on your cheeks. “I know I haven’t been very present in your life, or the others’ at that, but I plan on changing that.”

“…The Princess really got to you,” you mutter without thought, then brace for his reprimand when you realize what you’ve said.

But it doesn’t come. He smiles instead. “I suppose she has.”

“So you are in love.”

“That I am,” he says sheepishly. You’ve never seen your brother this shy. But it doesn’t last long. He clears his throat, glancing past your shoulder. “I have no qualms with a union of you and a respected Knight, though it’ll take some time for him to achieve that.” Your brows furrow when he looks back at you. “Until then, not a word of this romance gets out. And when father passes, I’ll see to it that you marry him.”

The weight in your chest feels like it lifts off all at once, your eyes widening once Taeyang’s words settle in your mind. “Really?!”

“Given that he would also like to marry you,” Taeyang adds, glancing past your shoulder again. “He looks scared.”

You whip around to face Shota who immediately lowers his head, hiding.

“Shota?” You call and he barely lifts his head to address you.

Before you can get another word in, the doors open to a rather uneasy looking Intak. “Tae…” He trails off when he notices the audience and quickly falls into a bow. “Princess,” he greets before glancing over at Taeyang. “I need to speak with Taeyang.”

“That’s fine,” Taeyang says, then pushes you towards Shota with a hand on your back. “Take this elsewhere.”

You don’t waste time. You take Shota’s wrist and pull him along with you, only letting go when others pass by. You take him to one of the crevices of the halls that you would often find yourself tucked away with him under vastly different circumstances.

“Shota.” You press him against the wall that you usually find yourself pushed against. “Please tell me that you—”

He kisses you. And you’re too weak to talk first, so you kiss him back, your arms winding around his neck as his find home around your waist.

“I’ll stay,” he mumbles into the kiss, desperate and breathless. “I won’t leave your side. I’m sorry.”

You pull from the kiss, cradling his face between your hands. “No.” Your breaths mingle with his as you push your forehead against his nose. “I know you want to join the War Guard. And you should, it’s your calling. Besides, you heard my brother,” you add, lips lifting into a smile when you see the twinkle in his eyes livening again. “You can marry me once you’re a Knight.”

He grins at you, the bright and twinkling one that’s made its home in your heart. “I can go?”

You nod against him, tilting your head up to tuck your nose against his. “As long as you come back to me.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

“So, you and your guard,” Jiung says from where he’s standing beside you. “What was it that you called him? Demon? Cretin? Well what do you call him now?” He elbows your arm. “Darling? Love? My d—Ow!”

He rubs his forehead, pain etched on his face, as you cross your arms and turn back to watch Shota and Jongseob bid their goodbye’s. The carriage waits for him at a more secluded area of the castle, private enough so you can bid your goodbyes without any prying eyes.

“You’re all better now which means I get to hurt you more,” you warn him. “You know nothing.”

Jiung huffs, pushing his hands back in his pocket. “I know that Taeyang wouldn’t make something up like this just for his amusement.”

“You don’t know that, he’s a changed man now. Didn’t you see him smiling?”

He snorts. “Our Queen-to-be is a witch.”

“Or a saint.”

The conversation lulls as you watch Shota bring Jongseob into a tight embrace.

“You’ll be okay not having him attached to your hip around the clock? For two years?”

You take a breath to soothe away the pang in your heart at the reminder. You’re not happy about sending him away for so long. But if it means he can come back as the man you can marry, it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

Besides, the way Shota’s eyes sparkle whenever the word Knight comes up was enough reason for you to agree anyway. He’s wanted nothing more than to follow in his father’s footsteps. Besides you, of course.

“I’ll be okay,” you concur. “Jiho will do until then.”

You watch Jongseob finally step away, wiping his eyes quickly. You refrain from making a comment about him being emotional as you quickly move past him to get to Shota.

Shota’s eyes are stuck to Jongseob’s retreating figure when you reach him, gaze more melancholy than you expect.

“Don’t tell me you’ll miss him more than me,” you say, taking his hands in yours, and he blinks his gaze to you.

He smiles, pulling you in to wrap his arms around your waist instead. “If I said I would?”

“Then I’ll leave you for Jiho.”

Immediately, Shota’s face blanks and he moves to pull away from you. “Don’t joke about that.”

Laughing, you pull him right back into your arms. “Don’t be so jealous. My heart is set on you, moonbeam.”

He blushes down to his neck and grins, dropping his head onto your shoulder. You hold him like that for a moment, memorizing the weight and the heat of him against you like this, even though you’d spent all last night doing just that—it didn’t feel like enough though.

“You’ll visit when you can, won’t you?” You ask him quietly, swallowing down the emotion that threatens to rise.

His fingers dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him as he brushes his lips against your collarbone. “Any chance I get.” He lifts his head to smile down at you. “Until then I have Moonbeam to remind me of you.”

You scrunch your nose, a light heat rising to your cheeks. “You talk about it like it's a pet. It’s a painting.”

He giggles and the sound alone melts away all your woes. “I love it like it's my own.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you chide, but it falls weak with the fond grin on your lips.

When Shota presses his forehead to yours, you take the chance to commit the image of him so close to you to your memory—the slope of his nose, the scar on his brow, the slant of his lips as he smiles at you, and the warmth in his gaze as he looks at you, wide and twinkling like they always are.

You want to capture the stars and hang them in his eyes. You want to keep them for yourself and watch them whenever you want.

“You’ll come back for me, right?” You ask him in fear that you won’t get to.

“I came back for you once already, right?”

He smiles, and you think you can see the stars already.

“I’ll come back for you again.”

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