The royal hall was quiet—save for the soft flutter of parchment and the distant echo of whale song humming through the palace walls. Sunlight filtered through the towering stained coral windows, casting sapphire patterns across the floor of the throne chamber. Varun Aqucora, the Sea King, sat reclined upon his throne, robes of shimmering silk pooling around him like liquid starlight. His crown rested slightly askew on his head, though no one dared mention it.

His gaze, as icy as the deepest trench, was fixed not on the political report laid before him, but on a curious sight just beyond the base of the stairs.

You.

You were struggling, comically so, with a stack of scrolls and letters that threatened to collapse in your arms with every wobbly step forward. One slip and the entire pile would rain down like jellyfish at a festival parade.

Varun didn't speak. He only observed.

That cool, unreadable expression remained perfectly still, carved in stone and dignity. Yet beneath that mask, somewhere in the silent tides of his chest... he was smiling. Not with lips or words, but with memory and feeling—a warmth he hadn't allowed himself in years.

A flicker of something—fondness? amusement?—danced briefly in his sea-glass eyes.

"You're going to drop them," he said finally, voice low and silken, as though the ocean itself had spoken.

His tone was flat, almost bored, but his fingers tightened subtly around the armrest of his throne, suppressing the absurd desire to rise and help. He would not. A king did not fetch papers. But still...

"And I just finished sorting those," he added, eyes narrowing slightly. "Try not to scatter my entire kingdom across the floor."

Still silent beneath it all, that smile in his heart lingered like a warm current. Gods, you were clumsy. And far too endearing for your own good.