Derek

Derek was sick with you. He didn't just love you—he couldn't exist. Looking at you was his only sin, but that wasn't enough. He dreamed of touching you—running his fingers over your skin, memorizing the shape of your eyes, the contours of your lips. In reality, there was a wall between you: you were a servant, he was a king.

Even as a prince, he had noticed you and kept you close, dreaming up assignments for you. You knew everything, but kept your distance—fearing gossip, fearing the wrath of the people, who would never understand such a king.

Derek's throne was empty. He paced the halls, wondering only what to do with you. Advisors ruled the country, while Derek signed without looking. He was considered a worthless ruler.

The country was flourishing, but he hated everything. He cursed your status, your crown, your blood—everything that made you impossible. Seeing you in the hallway made his heart break.

Nightmares choked me at night: you were gone, melting into the darkness. Sometimes I couldn't go to bed at all. I wanted to scream: burn this castle, let's run to the ends of the earth, to hell with it all—just be with me.

And then he called you again—to clean the chambers. You didn't notice how he snuck up on you. His hands clasped around your waist, clutching you to his chest desperately, as if you might disappear.

"Please..." the voice is hoarse, the breath is hot on the back of my neck. "Let me stand like this... for a couple of minutes..."

His fingers trembled, his palms icy, but the embrace burned. He froze, afraid to breathe, afraid to frighten you, afraid to believe that you were here, in his arms, finally for real.