THE NEXT MORNING
Sunlight filtered into the room like melted gold, slipping through the curtains and spilling across the sheets in soft, dappled patterns.
I stirred beneath the covers, my lashes fluttering against my cheeks, before my eyes slowly opened.
For a moment, I forgot everything.
The coronation.
The weight of the crown.
The aching years of missing someone who was never truly gone.
And then
I turned.
Rowen lay beside me.
Peaceful.
Breathing evenly.
One arm tucked under his head, the other resting close to where my hand had been.
His golden hair glowed in the morning light, strands falling slightly over his brow.
I just watched him, chest tightening at the sheer realness of him there — not a dream, not a memory.
Just Rowen.
My Rowen.
I reached out carefully, fingertips grazing his cheek.
He stirred, and slowly his green-grey eyes opened.
The way he looked at me, without hesitation, without fear, made my heart flutter.
"Good morning," I whispered.
He smiled faintly, voice still husky with sleep.
"That's the first time I've heard your morning voice in five years."
I smiled too, though my eyes shimmered. "Still soft and raspy?"
"Still perfect."
I leaned in and kissed his cheek, just above the edge of his jaw.
"Come with me to breakfast?"
His brow rose. "That won't cause a riot?"
"So what," I said, rising from the bed.
I dressed quickly, the palace already humming beyond my walls.
Rowen followed a few minutes later, cleaned up and back in his navy tunic, a subtle medal still pinned to his shoulder, a quiet reminder of the man he became while away.
We walked side by side down the corridor.
Not touching.
But close enough that the space between us hummed.
When we entered the breakfast hall, a few nobles lifted their heads in surprise.
But none more sharply than Rye.
He was already seated at the long dining table near the window, a silver goblet in his hand, and two guards standing quietly by the wall behind him.
His smile faltered the moment his gaze landed on Rowen beside me.
Rowen didn't flinch.
He simply walked beside me, pulled out my chair with quiet grace, and sat beside me, as if he'd always belonged there.
"Good morning, Prince Rye," I greeted smoothly, folding my hands on the table.
"Your Highness," Rye said with a strained smile, his eyes never leaving Rowen.
"I didn't expect… company."
Rowen met his gaze with cold, unreadable calm. "I didn't expect to be back this soon."
Rye's jaw tightened. "And yet here you are."
I could feel the tension, thick and silent. It wrapped itself around the table like an invisible storm.
I reached for my tea, ignoring the way Rye's eyes flicked to my hand and the bracelet still circling my wrist.
"It's a beautiful morning," I said with false brightness.
"Perfect for honesty, don't you think?"
Neither men answered.
I glanced at Rowen, whose fingers brushed mine beneath the table.
I didn't pull away.
Rye noticed.
And that was the final crack.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back with a harsh sound.
The two guards straightened, startled.
"Excuse me," Rye said tightly. "I seem to have lost my appetite."
He turned on his heel and walked out, the heat of his fury trailing in his wake like smoke.
The moment he was gone, I let out a quiet breath.
Rowen reached for the teapot, calmly refilling my cup.
"Well," he said dryly, "that went better than expected."
I gave him a wry look. "You haven't seen him truly angry yet."
Rowen's smile faded slightly, but his eyes stayed locked on mine.
"I don't care how angry he gets," he said. "I'm not leaving you again."
My heart swelled at that.
I reached for his hand above the table, no more hiding.
And Rowen held on like he never wanted to let go.
******
The dining hall had emptied slowly after Rye's abrupt departure.
Courtiers murmured amongst themselves, servants swept through quietly, and the echoes of clinking silver faded into a peaceful hush.
But Rowen and I remained.
We sat near the tall windows where golden morning light poured in, bathing the table in a soft, golden warmth.
The scent of cinnamon buns and honeyed tea filled the air.
A silver dish between us sat nearly empty, save for the last few pieces of flaky pastry Rowen had insisted I try.
"This one's better than Bun Bun," he said, chewing thoughtfully.
I raised a brow. "Blasphemy."
Rowen grinned, leaning back in his chair, one arm resting lazily along the back of mine.
"Then we'll have to settle it with a duel."
"With what, teacups and butter knives?"
"I'll have you know, I was knighted with a sword. A real one."
"Oh, I know," I teased, lifting my cup.
"You've mentioned it... every five minutes."
He smirked, stealing a bit of jam off my plate.
And I, who once wore my coldness like a second crown, just laughed.
My face glowed under the sunlight, my black hair falling in loose waves down my back, and my cheeks were flushed with something I hadn't worn in a long time.
Rowen looked at me like I was magic.
And for a while, the world was quiet. No kingdom. No expectations. No Rye.
Just my laughter and the way our hands met beneath the table again, fingers lacing effortlessly.
Upstairs, quietly, behind a balcony's sheer curtain, the King stood with his arms folded.
He had been watching them for a while now.
Not spying.
Just observing.
Remembering.
The look in Rowen's eyes, the light in my smile, it wasn't the kind of love born from title or duty.
It was the kind that had roots. That could survive wars.
The kind he had once known when he first looked at my mother.
A soft smile curved his lips.
He turned to leave, walking down the quiet corridor toward his own study, already planning a conversation he knew would come soon.
Not as a king.
But as a father.