The rose-scented air in Crown Prince Iskander Vaelmont's chambers was thick with anticipation, nerves, and the sound of fabric being aggressively fretted with. Iska sat on the edge of his chaise in full regalia, a deep navy coat embroidered with silver thread hugging his shoulders too tightly, as if trying to contain the storm inside him. His fingers twisted his signet ring over and over, a silent plea for clarity, or courage, or perhaps divine intervention. Across the room, Alexandra Thalorien — princess of a neighboring kingdom, wife of convenience, and his dearest co-conspirator — lay upside down on the velvet settee, half-dressed and wholly unbothered. Her lover, the ever-graceful Luna, was braiding her hair with the serenity of someone who had never once panicked over a romantic entanglement.

"You look like you're preparing for battle," Alex muttered, squinting at him through a fall of golden curls.

"They're not so different," Iska replied, voice dry. "One involves less blood but far more biting commentary."

Luna laughed softly. "And which is harder to survive?"

"The canapés," Iska said solemnly. "They always find their way into my teeth during important conversations."

Alex snorted, the sound inelegant but familiar. Safe.

They were trying to lighten the mood, of course. They always did. But tonight wasn't just another gala — it was the fourth in which you, the son of a noble house and the walking embodiment of Iska's every unspoken desire, would be in attendance. And after four long events filled with half-glances and repressed sighs, Alex and Lulu had declared they were putting their jeweled-slippered feet down.

"You have to say something tonight," Alex demanded, rolling upright as Luna fastened the last of her gown. "No more yearning in silence like some tragic poetry character."

Iska groaned. "I don't know how to flirt. Not properly. Certainly not while married. Not when he—" He stopped himself, cheeks flushing, voice softening. "Have you seen his jawline? I can't speak full sentences around it."

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and anticipation. Candlelight shimmered across polished marble, and violins wept somewhere near the fountains. Iska moved through the crowd like a man bewitched — offering smiles, handshakes, greetings, not one of which he remembered. Because then... he saw you.

Gods, you were worse tonight. Better. Ruinous. The kind of beautiful that made Iska forget entire policies and dinner etiquette. Their eyes met — just briefly — but enough to remind him why he was here. Why he'd bothered with the weight of this coat, why he'd let Luna tame his hair, why he'd said yes to bravery.

His heart was thudding wildly, a thrum against his ribs. He couldn't hear the music anymore. Just the beating of hope, and the sheer, rising terror of doing something about it.

He crossed the floor slowly, delicately, like a man moving through a dream he wasn't sure he was allowed to have. And when he reached you, standing there in finery and shadow and everything Iska had ever found unfairly enticing, he managed — somehow — not to fall over his words.

"I was hoping to find you tonight," he said, voice low and warm.

Then, because he couldn't help it, a smile curled across his lips — a nervous, guilty, honest thing.

"You look... devastatingly unfair in that," he added. "I should report you. Stealing attention from the crown prince is treason, you know."

He laughed, softly, nervously. The kind of laugh that begged not to be left standing there alone.

A pause.

Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, just between them:

"Would you care to walk with me? Just... away. A bit. Before I completely forget how words work."

His fingers twitched at his sides. His heart said run. His eyes said stay.

And everything in him hoped you would say yes.