Even Emperors are Chosen
a/n: sorry for how long this took to get out. editing took forever bc i ended up reworking some bits. tbh, i'm still not entirely happy with the end result, but i can't take writing any more of a slow burn than this (it's nowhere close to my longest fic, but somehow it feels like the romance is drawn out like molasses, prob bc it usually takes just a scene or two to get to the dating, but here there are so many more.) honestly, idek if this technically prince!reader or not anymore bc i tamped down a lot on the flowery stuff (both literally and figuratively) that i added to the shorter one, reader's just rly considerate instead
Michael Kaiser does not expect to be humbled during a lecture.
The class is tedious and mandatory—nonsense the athletics department insists builds “well-rounded scholars.” He sits in the back, legs stretched out, presence alone enough to make people think twice before sitting near him.
Except you.
You slide into the empty seat beside him with a soft, distracted sorry as you juggle your notebook and coffee, completely unfazed by the way several people glance over like you’ve just committed a social crime.
He looks at you. You don’t look back.
Interesting.
Five minutes in, your pen runs out of ink.
You don’t sigh dramatically or whisper for help. You just pause, assess, then lean over slightly.
“Hey—do you mind if I borrow a pen for a second? I’ll give it right back.”
The politeness is… disarming.
He hands you one without thinking. You smile, quick, genuine, and return it after jotting something down, exactly as promised.
“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
Lifesaver. He scoffs internally. It was a pen.
Still, when class ends, you hold the door open for him as people funnel out.
“After you.”
He arches a brow. “I don’t need-”
You’re already holding it, unbothered. Not challenging. Just… considerate.
He walks through anyway, jaw tight, pride mildly bruised.
From then on, he notices you everywhere. Not because he's keeping track, of course, but you keep appearing.
Not in a suspicious way. Not hovering. Just… around.
In the cafeteria, you notice him scanning for a seat with his tray like he’s daring someone to challenge him.
You wave him over to your table, already half-occupied by other students.
“There’s room here, if you want.”
Not you can sit with me. Just room.
He sits, because refusing would be a waste of time—and because something about you feels oddly safe.
You notice he didn’t grab a fork.
Before he can stand back up, you wordlessly slide your unused one over and grab a spare from the utensil bin behind you.
No comment. No fuss.
He stares at the fork like it’s personally betrayed him.
“…I could've grabbed one by myself,” he mutters.
You shrug, smiling around a bite of food. “I know. I just wanted to.”
That answer sticks with him far longer than it should.
In the library, you catch him mid-scowl at his laptop.
You don’t interrupt. You just set a sticky note on his desk before passing by.
You’ve got this! (૭ ｡•̀ ᵕ •́｡ )૭ Don’t forget to stretch your hands your grip matters more than you think
He doesn’t even realize it’s from you until he sees your handwriting and the little drawing, and glances up, catching the back of your head disappearing down the aisle.
He shouldn’t care.
He absolutely should not tuck the note into his notebook like it’s something precious.
Whether he does is for his knowledge only.
At a campus event—some boring fundraiser the team forced him into attending—he watches you from afar.
You help a kid with a dropped balloon. You thank volunteers by name. You listen intently to someone rambling about something you clearly don’t care about, nodding like it matters anyway.
When you spot him, you wave.
Not excited. Not shy. Just happy.
“Kaiser! Hey. Are you enjoying yourself?”
He crosses his arms. “There's nothing about this for me to ‘enjoy’.”
You hum thoughtfully. “That’s okay. Thanks for coming anyway.”
Thanks… for coming?
The phrasing throws him off balance.
The compliments come next. And that’s when things get dangerous.
Not flattery—just observations.
“You explained that concept really clearly in class today.”
“You’re really disciplined. I admire that.”
“You always look so focused when you train. It’s kind of inspiring.”
Each one lands like a soft blow to the chest.
He bristles at first.
“…You talk like you’re encouraging a wounded knight.”
You grin. “Hey, even knights deserve encouragement.”
The knight thing is clearly a joke—but it lingers.
Because no one has ever spoken to him like strength doesn’t cancel out care.
By the third week of running into you everywhere, Michael Kaiser is convinced.
No one is that attentive by accident.
You remember his coffee order—black, no sugar—after hearing him mention it once.
You sit next to him in lecture even when there are other open seats.
You laugh at his dry, cutting humor like it’s genuinely funny, not intimidating.
Most damning of all: you look at him when he talks.
Not through him. Not past him. Not at the emperor.
At him. At Michael.
So of course he assumes intent.
One afternoon, you fall into step beside him as you both leave the gym building, autumn air sharp and clean.
“You played well today,” you say easily. “Your control’s getting even tighter.”
He smirks, hands in his jacket pockets. “Careful. If you keep praising me like that, people might get ideas.”
You glance at him, amused. “What kind of ideas?”
“That you’re trying to impress me.”
He expects flustered denial. Or coy deflection.
Instead, you shrug. “I already am impressed.”
He nearly trips.
You don’t notice—too busy waving at someone across the quad.
From then on, he leans into it.
He lowers his voice when he talks to you. Invades your space just a little. Starts offering his arm mock-dramatically when there’s a puddle or uneven ground.
“You going to escort me too, Prince Charming?” he teases.
You laugh, bright and unoffended. “If you’d like.”
The sincerity throws him every single time.
Kaiser decides to escalate.
Not outright—he’s not desperate. Just… subtle tests. Things that should earn him a reaction if you’re interested.
It starts back in the library.
You’re sitting across from him, studying, when he closes his book and leans forward.
“You know,” he says casually, “people keep asking if we’re together.”
You look up, surprised. “Oh? Why?”
Why?
That’s not the right response.
He shrugs, watching you closely. “We’re always around each other. You’re… attentive.”
You consider this seriously, then smile.
“Huh. I guess that makes sense. I’m glad you don’t mind.”
Mind?
“No,” he says stiffly. “I don’t.”
You nod, satisfied, and go right back to highlighting your notes.
No blush. No tension. No Oh, what do you think we are?
His chest feels oddly hollow.
He tries again later—harder.
At an off-campus park, golden leaves crunching underfoot, you sit on a bench together after running into each other by chance.
“Do you always treat people like this?” he asks suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Like they’re… important.”
You smile, soft and earnest. “I try to.”
His jaw tightens. “Even people who are barely in your life?”
You tilt your head, confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The answer is innocent.
It still feels like rejection.
He laughs it off, sharp and practiced. “You’re unbelievable.”
You grin. “Is that bad?”
He looks away. “…No.”
That night, he lies awake replaying the conversation, the realization settling in like frost.
You weren’t flirting.
You were being yourself.
The confirmation comes when he least expects it.
He’s in the cafeteria, tray in hand, when he hears your voice behind him.
“Hey—your bag’s open. You almost dropped your notebook.”
Not to him.
To some first-year student who looks like a startled deer.
You help them gather their things. Offer encouragement. Wish them luck on their exam.
The exact same warmth. The same attentiveness.
The same smile.
Something in Kaiser’s chest drops.
Later, he watches you help a teammate tape their wrist. Compliment another’s presentation. Sit with someone who’s clearly having a bad day.
You don’t ration your kindness.
You don’t reserve it for a select few.
It’s not something he earned.
He's seen it all along, but only just now noticing it extends to everyone you've ever interacted with.
And that realization hurts more than any insult ever could.
Because if you’re like this with everyone… then choosing him would mean choosing, not defaulting.
And Kaiser doesn’t believe—can’t believe—that he’s someone you’d choose freely.
The thought sits heavy in his chest for days.
At first, he thinks of pushing you away. Instead, he does something far more dangerous.
He adjusts.
He tells himself—very deliberately—that this is fine.
That your warmth doesn't belong to him.
That being near you, even like this, is already more than he deserves.
So he stays.
He still sits next to you in lectures, though he’s careful not to lean too close.
He still walks with you across campus, matching your pace instead of setting it.
He still lets you fuss—just a little—when you remind him to eat or stretch or rest.
He reframes it all.
She’s just kind. She’s just like this. Don’t be greedy.
When you praise him now, he smiles more softly, less sharp. When you offer help, he thanks you instead of bristling. He stops testing, stops pushing, stops hoping.
If he treats it like something precious but untouchable, maybe it won’t hurt so much.
There’s a strange peace in it.
You sit together at a campus event, shoulders brushing, and he listens to you talk about something you love—some book, some idea, some small joy. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tease. Just listens.
And thinks: I’m lucky. Even if this is all it ever is.
One evening, you run into him at the library just as he’s packing up.
“Heading out?” you ask.
He nods. “Yeah. Long day.”
You hesitate, then smile. “Want company?”
He does.
He always does.
“Sure,” he says, steady. “I’d like that.”
As you walk together into the cool night air, Kaiser feels that familiar warmth settle around him—not as a promise, not as an invitation.
Just as something he’s allowed to share in.
And he decides, quietly and firmly, that this is enough.
That wanting more would be selfish, would be more than he deserved.
That if being just your friend is the price of staying in your light, he’ll pay it gladly.
Even if it means wanting you in a way you'll never know.
Kaiser is doing fine.
That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
He’s adjusted to the shape of wanting you without asking for more. Learned how to stand close without leaning in. How to enjoy your presence without imagining a future that doesn’t belong to him.
It works.
Mostly.
Until one evening when everything is wrong in exactly the right way.
It’s late—one of those quiet campus nights where the paths are empty and the lampposts glow soft and forgiving.
You and Kaiser are sitting on the grass near an off-campus park, shoes kicked off, bags forgotten. The city hum is distant. The stars are faint but trying.
You’re talking about nothing important. Just a show you'd been hooked on as of late. Something silly. Something warm.
“And then,” you say, laughing, “I realized I’d been rooting for the villain the whole time.”
He snorts. “Figures.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “Hey.”
He doesn’t pull away.
In fact, he leans closer.
“You ever think,” he says slowly, eyes fixed on the sky, “that some people are only villains because no one bothered to see them differently?”
You glance at him, expression softening. “Yeah. I think that happens a lot.”
Silence stretches.
Not awkward. Heavy.
He feels it—the moment teetering, dangerous and alive. The warmth in his chest pushing upward, threatening to spill.
You turn toward him fully now. “You okay? You got quiet.”
He meets your eyes.
Really meets them.
This close, he can see every detail—the sincerity, the patience, the way you never look at him like he’s something sharp you need to handle carefully.
He forgets, for just a second, every reason he shouldn’t.
“…You make it easy,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Easy?”
“To breathe,” he admits, voice low. “To be… normal.”
The words are already more than he’s allowed himself.
Your smile is gentle. Encouraging. “I’m glad.”
That’s it.
That’s the opening.
His heart is pounding now, crown cracked, walls down. He leans in just a fraction more, voice dropping like a secret.
“There’s something I—”
A phone buzzes loudly between you.
You both flinch.
You groan, checking the screen. “Ugh—sorry. I promised I’d help someone with an assignment tonight. I completely forgot.”
He straightens immediately.
The moment evaporates like mist.
“Oh,” he says, too fast. Too composed. “Right.”
You stand, brushing grass off your hands. “Rain check? I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Tomorrow.
He nods. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
You smile at him once more—warm, trusting—and jog off down the path, waving over your shoulder.
Kaiser stays seated long after you’re gone.
His chest aches.
Not because he didn’t confess.
But because he almost did.
And that terrifies him.
That night, he’s furious with himself.
He’d made a decision—to be grateful, to be content, to not ask for more.
And he nearly ruined it.
He imagines it: you smiling apologetically, gently letting him down. Or worse—trying to stay kind through the awkwardness. Treating him carefully, like something fragile.
He can’t survive that.
He can’t trust that the temptation won’t strike him again, either.
So he does the only thing he knows how to do when emotions get dangerous.
He locks them away.
The change is subtle at first.
He still sits next to you—but he scrolls on his phone instead of talking. He still walks with you—but he keeps his hands in his pockets, pace a little faster. He still listens—but he doesn’t linger.
When you compliment him, he deflects.
When you offer help, he declines.
You notice. Of course you do.
One afternoon, you catch him after lecture.
“Kaiser,” you say gently, falling into step beside him. “Did I do something?”
He stops.
For a second, the old him—the one on the grass, under the stars—almost answers honestly.
But he doesn’t trust that version of himself anymore.
“No,” he says flatly. “You didn’t.” Technically, it's not a lie.
Your brow furrows. “Then why do I feel like you’re… leaving?”
The word hits harder than he expects.
He exhales, forcing a careless shrug. “You’re imagining things.”
You search his face, clearly unconvinced. “If you ever need space, you can just say so.”
“I’m fine,” he insists.
And that’s the problem.
He’s too fine.
Too controlled. Too distant. Emperor restored, crown firmly in place.
You nod slowly, respecting his words even if they don’t sit right.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I just wanted to check.”
You let him go.
And Kaiser tells himself—again—that this is for the best.
That distance is safer than longing.
That if he steps back now, he won’t break later.
But as he watches you walk away, warmth withheld for the first time in weeks, one thought echoes in his mind, relentless and cruel:
You had your chance.
After that, Kaiser does everything right.
His grades don’t slip. His performance doesn’t falter. He still scores, still wins, still stands where he’s supposed to stand.
From the outside, nothing is wrong.
From the inside, everything feels… quieter.
Dimmer.
Lectures blur together. Wins feel procedural. Applause sounds distant, like it’s meant for someone else. He goes through campus and sees the places where you used to be—next to him in class, matching his pace, sitting close enough that he could feel your warmth even without touching.
Now, there’s space.
He told himself it was necessary.
He told himself this was discipline.
But discipline isn’t supposed to feel like mourning.
He catches himself looking for you anyway.
In the cafeteria. In the library. On the quad at sunset.
Sometimes he sees you laughing with someone else and feels a sharp, irrational flare of jealousy that he immediately stamps down. You don’t owe him anything. He’s the one who stepped back.
So he lives with it.
And when the silence starts getting too loud, he does something stupid.
Kaiser doesn’t go to parties.
They’re loud, pointless, filled with people who want something from him.
Which is exactly why he goes to this one.
He needs a distraction. Noise. Motion. Anything to drown out the way your absence has turned everything into background static.
The house is packed. Music thrums through the walls. Someone hands him a drink he doesn’t remember asking for.
He downs half of it in one go.
It helps. A little.
And then, like a cruel joke, he sees you.
You’re near the kitchen, talking to someone, hair catching the light. Laughing. Alive.
His chest tightens.
For a second, he considers leaving. Pretending he never saw you.
Then your eyes meet his.
Surprise flickers across your face. Then something else. Relief? Determination?
You don’t hesitate.
You cross the room and take his wrist.
“Come with me.”
It’s not a request.
You lead him through the house, past confused glances, out the back door into the cool night air. The music dulls to a distant thrum.
There’s a string of lights overhead. A small patio. Privacy, finally.
You let go of his wrist but stay close.
He opens his mouth—sharp remark loaded and ready—but you beat him to it.
“I’m done,” you say simply.
He blinks. “…Done with what?”
You take a breath, steadying yourself.
“With not seeing you anymore. With pretending this is fine.”
His heart starts pounding.
“You disappeared,” you continue, voice firm but not angry. “And I respected it, because that’s what you do when you care about someone. But I don’t want distance. I want you.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He laughs once, disbelieving. “You don’t mean that.”
You step closer. “I do.”
“No,” he insists, shaking his head. “You’re just- this is just how you are. You’re kind. You’re warm. You don’t-”
“I’m making a choice,” you interrupt.
Silence crashes down.
You look at him, eyes unwavering. “I like you, Michael. Not in some vague, universal way. Not the way just friends do. I like you. And I want to go out with you, to call you my boyfriend.”
His vision blurs.
“That doesn’t happen to me,” he says hoarsely. “People don’t- someone like you doesn’t-”
You reach up, cupping his face without hesitation.
“Listen to me,” you say gently. “I won’t let go without a fight. So if you’re trying to talk me out of this because you think for some misguided reason you don't deserve me or to be happy, it’s not going to work.”
Something inside him finally gives.
His breath stutters. His composure, so carefully maintained, crumbles. Tears spill before he can stop them, hot and humiliating and real.
He presses his forehead against yours, hands clenched in your jacket like you might disappear.
“…Yes,” he chokes out. “Okay. Yes. I want that. I want you, too.”
You smile through your own misty eyes and pull him into a fierce hug.
When he finally calms—when the world feels solid again—you laugh softly.
“I wanted to wait until you were ready, you know,” you admit. “But you weren’t going to say anything, so I figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”
His face burns.
“…You’re impossible.”
You grin. “And you’re dramatic.”
He scoffs, wiping his eyes. “You dragged me outside a party to emotionally ambush me.”
“You loved it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
You lace your fingers together anyway and start walking, tugging him along.
He squeezes your hand back, smiling despite himself.
“…You’re lucky I like you.”
You bump his shoulder. “Good thing I won’t let you forget it.”
And as you walk off together—bickering, laughing, hand-in-hand, party forgotten—Michael Kaiser realizes something terrifying and wonderful:
For the first time in his life, something truly amazing didn’t have to be earned.
It just… chose him back.