Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The moon was high over the castle spires when Oscar Piastri found himself once again standing in the shadow of the eastern garden wall.

His armor was polished, his sword at his hip, and his oath heavy in his chest. Yet it was not battle nor enemy that brought him here tonight—it was the unmistakable sound of boots scraping stone.

The prince was sneaking out.

Again.

Oscar sighed softly, though it held no irritation. He could already picture it, Lando’s tousled hair, his mischievous grin, the way he thought the world belonged to him simply because the gates of the palace always opened at his will.

And sure enough, there he was—halfway up the wall, cloak snagging on a thorn, muttering curses that no royal tutor would approve of. “Your Highness,” Oscar said at last, his voice low but even.

Lando froze, clinging to the wall. Slowly, he turned, caught between indignation and guilt. “Oscar,” he hissed. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that. I nearly lost my grip.”

“You nearly lose your grip every time,” Oscar replied, moving forward. His words could have carried reproach, but in his tone there was only calm.

He reached up, steadying Lando’s boot against the stone so he wouldn’t slip. Lando huffed, muttered something about knights being killjoys, and swung the rest of the way down, landing less gracefully than he intended.

Oscar, ever patient, dusted the stray leaves from his cloak. “Where to tonight?” the knight asked quietly.

Lando’s eyes lit up like a boy half his age. “The harbor. They say the tavern singers are better than the court’s entire troupe.”

Oscar should have said no. He should have ordered the prince back inside, reminded him of duty, of safety.

Instead, he unclasped his own cloak and draped it over Lando’s shoulders, the thick wool falling around him like a shield.

“It’s cold by the water,” Oscar murmured. Lando blinked, the usual retort caught on his tongue. For a brief, startling moment, he didn’t know what to say.

No one ever prepared him for the chill. No one ever thought to cover him before the night swallowed him whole.

Oscar adjusted the clasp at his throat, gentle, careful, as though the prince might break.

Then he stepped back. “Lead the way, Highness. I’ll follow.”

And so they slipped out into the night—the reckless prince with mischief in his smile, and the knight who loved him as quietly and endlessly as the sea loved the shore.

The Kingdom of Ardenvale lay cradled between rolling green hills and the endless expanse of sea. Its castles were carved from pale stone, crowned with banners of deep blue and silver that caught the sunlight like waves.

The people often said their land thrived because of balance—strength of the mountains, gentleness of the waters.

But balance was harder to find within the royal family. King Alaric was a ruler of steel: broad-shouldered, his voice carrying command like thunder across the hall.

Queen Eleanor, in contrast, was his calm—measured, graceful, and sharp with wisdom that often softened her husband’s harsher edges. Together, they had one son, Prince Lando.

The boy who would one day wear the crown. And though the court whispered admiration for the prince’s charm and wit, his parents knew him differently.

Reckless. Restless.

A spirit too wild for gilded walls. By the time Lando turned seventeen, it was clear that no tutor’s scolding, no royal decree, would cage his wandering heart.

So the King called upon the knight who had risen fastest through the ranks. Oscar Piastri was only nineteen when he knelt in the great hall, head bowed, the torchlight flickering across his polished armor.

His record was unblemished—swift of sword, steady of judgment, unyielding in loyalty. Yet what set him apart was not his strength, but his restraint. He carried silence like others carried pride.

“From this day,” King Alaric declared, his voice filling the chamber, “you are bound to the Crown Prince. His shadow in light, his shield in darkness. Where he treads, you follow. Where he falters, you steady. Until the crown rests upon his brow.”

Oscar had lifted his gaze, meeting the prince’s eyes for the first time.

Lando was smirking, as though this were all a game. But in the quiet stretch of that moment, Oscar saw something else—loneliness flickering beneath bravado, a boy longing for freedom in a world that only saw duty.

“I swear it,” Oscar said, his vow resonating low and certain.

From then on, the kingdom knew, wherever the Crown Prince was, his knight would be there too. Not as a jailor, not as a leash, but as a constant presence.

And though the prince rolled his eyes and tested boundaries at every chance, each time he slipped away, Oscar was there—not to scold, but to guide him back.

With patience. With gentleness. With a devotion neither of them yet had words for.

The people of Ardenvale called him the crown’s shadow. But to Lando, he was simply Oscar.

The road to the harbor was quiet save for the crunch of gravel under boots. Lando strode ahead, shoulders squared, cloak swinging as though he were the commander of his own private adventure.

Every so often, he glanced back—not to check if Oscar was following, but to make sure he hadn’t been caught trying to look.

Oscar, as always, was a silent shadow a few paces behind. His armor was muted tonight, the crest hidden beneath a travel cloak.

He walked with the steady rhythm of someone born to guard, alert to every shifting shadow, every rustle of leaves. But his gaze often drifted forward, settling on the figure he was sworn to protect.

The harbor lay down the sloping hill, lanterns glowing like scattered stars across the water.

The air grew sharper here, salt and smoke curling together as fishing boats swayed against their moorings. Lando breathed it in like freedom itself.

“See?” he said, half-turning toward Oscar, his grin catching in the lamplight. “It’s different here. Real. Not all polished speeches and court musicians.”

Oscar only nodded, though something in his expression softened. He could have argued that palace singers were safer, finer, but he didn’t. He never did.

The tavern was already alive with sound when they reached it—fiddles and voices spilling into the night, laughter shaking the timber walls. Lando pushed the door open with a flourish, stepping into warmth and noise like he belonged to it.

Oscar followed, quieter, ducking his head so the sword at his hip wouldn’t draw eyes. He took the place beside the door, as unobtrusive as a shadow, but his gaze never left the prince.

Lando moved straight toward the crowd at the hearth where the singers played, his laughter joining theirs as easily as if he’d grown up in their midst. He was radiant here, untethered.

Oscar watched, a faint warmth unfurling in his chest. He was not meant to want anything beyond duty. And yet, there was something about seeing the prince like this—unguarded, happy—that made every sleepless night and every silent vigil feel worth it.

When the first song ended, a tavern maid pressed a cup into Lando’s hand, then another into Oscar’s. He shook his head politely, but she only laughed, insisting. He accepted, holding it without drinking.

From across the room, Lando caught his eye, raising his own cup in triumph before throwing it back. Oscar almost smiled. Almost.

The singers struck up a ballad next, voices rising with the strings. And as the tavern swayed with music, the knight stood watch over his reckless prince—cloak drawn close, heart quietly, endlessly steady.

By the time the last song ended and the tavern emptied, the harbor was cloaked in silence again. Lanterns bobbed on the water, swaying with the tide, and the streets that had been alive with laughter now seemed hushed, heavy with night.

Lando stifled a yawn, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. His steps were slower now, less purposeful than before, and Oscar noticed.

“Come,” the knight murmured. “We should return.” Normally, Lando would have walked ahead, charging into the shadows like he didn’t care what waited in them.

But tonight, when Oscar moved to take his place a few steps behind, the prince reached out. His fingers brushed Oscar’s arm, hesitant.

“Just… walk beside me this time,” he said, voice softer than usual, stripped of mischief.

Oscar adjusted his pace without a word, falling into stride at Lando’s side. Their shoulders almost touched, close enough that Lando could feel the quiet steadiness radiating from him.

For a long while they walked in silence, the only sound the distant waves and their boots on stone. Then, low and raw, Lando spoke.

“Sometimes I just wish I had a different life, you know?” The words hung in the air, heavier than the sea fog rolling over the streets.

Oscar turned his head, studying him—not the prince who smirked at danger or laughed at the court’s rules, but the boy beneath it all. The boy who carried a crown he hadn’t asked for.

But Oscar didn’t answer with platitudes. He didn’t remind him of duty, or of destiny. He only walked, his presence steady, giving the prince space to breathe in his confession without fear of judgment.

Finally, he said quietly, “What kind of life would you choose?”

Lando’s mouth twisted, like the thought itself was both impossible and dangerous. He shoved his hands into the cloak Oscar had given him earlier, pulling it tighter around himself.

“One where I’m not always being watched. Not always told what I have to be. Maybe just… someone ordinary. Free.”

Oscar listened, every word sinking deep. He could not give Lando freedom. He could not tear down the crown waiting for him. But he could do what he had always done—walk beside him, shield him from the worst of the weight, let him feel less alone.

And so he said nothing more. Just lengthened his stride to match the prince’s, cloak brushing cloak, until the castle walls rose before them again—looming, inevitable, but not insurmountable.

Not tonight.

The palace had been dressed for celebration. Chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, their light scattering across gilded walls and polished floors.

Music filled the grand hall—violins and flutes rising above the hum of chatter. Nobles in silks and jewels moved in graceful patterns, their laughter echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.

It was a birthday party for a prince and yet, Oscar could only see the boy he had first been sworn to protect three years ago.

Lando stood at the center of it all, a quiet blaze of white and gold. His formal uniform—crisp, tailored, unmistakably princely—glowed under the soft lights, its clean lines edged with muted gold detailing. Everything about him was sharp, intentional. The crest of Ardenvale rested at his collar, and a single signet ring caught the light as he lifted his hand.

To everyone else he looked twenty now, stepping fully into adulthood, one year closer to the crown. But to Oscar, he was still the same restless seventeen-year-old who once grinned at him from the garden wall, dirt on his boots, defiance in his eyes.

The courtiers bowed, offered blessings, raised their goblets. Lando smiled, nodded, even laughed, but Oscar knew it wasn’t the politics or the posturing that pleased him.

It was the crowd itself, the noise, the feeling of life teeming around him. And perhaps—Oscar allowed himself the faintest smile—it was the cakes.

The tables were laden with them, lemon tarts, sugared pastries, great tiers of spiced honey cakes glazed until they gleamed.

Lando drifted toward them more than once, not bothering to hide his grin. He cut generous slices, ignoring the delicate portions the nobles took, and leaned against the table as though he were back at the tavern hearth instead of in his father’s grand hall.

No threat passed unnoticed—not the sharp looks from ambitious dukes, not the whispering courtiers measuring the prince’s worth. But Oscar never let it show. To Lando, he was simply there, steady as stone.

At one point, Lando caught his gaze across the room. His mouth was full of cake, but his eyes glimmered with mischief, like a boy caught red-handed. Oscar inclined his head, the smallest acknowledgment, and Lando’s grin only widened.

The party swelled on—dancers spinning, goblets clinking, the King and Queen accepting toasts for their son’s new year.

But through it all, Oscar’s world remained narrowed to one figure, the prince with crumbs on his sleeve and a laugh too free for the weight of a crown.

To the kingdom, Lando was twenty now. To Oscar, he was still just Lando. And he would guard that boy, beneath the prince, for as long as his vow held.

The palace had long since gone silent. The music faded, the nobles departed, the last of the candles guttered out in the corridors.

Behind the heavy oak doors of his chambers, the Crown Prince sat alone, still wearing his formal white-and-gold uniform. Sharp lines of tailored fabric, the gold accents catching the flicker of the firelight.

Lando leaned back into the couch, one leg folded beneath him, a plate of cake balanced on his knee. He ate lazily, fork dangling between his fingers, crumbs dotting the sleeve he hadn’t bothered to change out of.

The party might have been grand, but this—quiet, messy, sweet—was far more his pace.

A knock sounded, low and familiar. “Come in,” he called, voice muffled around a bite of frosting.

The door opened, and Oscar stepped inside, still in his knight’s cloak, sword held securely under one arm.

His eyes swept the room automatically—shadows, corners, windows—before settling on the prince sprawled across the couch.

“Hey, Oscar,” Lando said, waving his fork like a scepter. He nudged the plate toward him. “Want some?”

Oscar’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of amusement. He stepped closer but shook his head. “It’s your—” He caught himself, corrected softly, “…Lando.”

The prince’s smile faltered into something gentler, quieter. He hated the titles when it was just them. He wanted to be seen, not as the crown, but as himself. And Oscar—Oscar always gave him that.

There was a pause. Then the knight slipped a hand into his cloak, pulling something small from the inner pocket.

A wrapped parcel, no larger than a fist, plain brown paper tied with string. He held it out with a quiet certainty.

“Happy birthday,” Oscar said. Lando blinked, cake momentarily forgotten. He stared at the gift like it was some foreign thing—something rare, because it was.

Few gave him gifts not chosen by protocol or politics. Few remembered he was a boy who might like surprises, not just a prince who must accept duty.

“Wait,” Lando said, sitting up straighter, his grin threatening to break wide again. “You actually got me something?”

Oscar didn’t answer with words, only inclined his head, steady, calm.

And for once, Lando didn’t fill the silence with teasing. He reached out, took the parcel carefully, as though it were fragile. His fingers brushed against Oscar’s glove for the briefest second—warmth against steel.

The fire crackled. Outside, the castle slept. Inside, it was just them—prince and knight, crown and shadow, and a small gift that meant more than any golden banquet.

Lando turned the little parcel over in his hands, grinning like a boy with a secret. He looked up at Oscar, half-expecting him to sit down and watch. But the knight only shook his head.

“Open it when I’m gone,” Oscar said quietly, as if the gift itself wasn’t meant to be shared in the same room.

“And you should sleep, Lando. It’s already late.” There was no command in his voice, only a steady care that wrapped around the words.

Lando leaned back into the couch cushions, smirk tugging at his lips. “You know, you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, unamused, but he didn’t move to argue. He only lingered at the edge of the firelight, watchful as always.

And then—just for the briefest second—Lando smiled. Not the grin he wore in court, not the mischievous smirk he flashed while sneaking out, but something softer. Something he believed was only ever meant for Oscar.

“Best birthday ever,” he murmured. The words struck deeper than he intended, but he didn’t take them back.

Oscar’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary before he bowed his head and stepped toward the door.

“Goodnight, Lando.” The latch clicked softly behind him, and the prince was alone again.

For a while, Lando simply stared at the parcel in his lap, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep the grin from breaking free.

Then, when the silence felt too heavy to bear, he tugged the string loose and peeled back the brown paper.

Inside lay a necklace, a simple silver chain, nothing ornate or gaudy. Hanging from it was a small pendant etched with his own initials—L—delicate, personal, undeniably his.

Lando’s grin widened until his cheeks hurt. Of all the gifts showered on him tonight—jeweled goblets, embroidered cloaks, promises of lands and titles—this was the only one that felt like him.

Not the crown. Not the heir. Just Lando. Without hesitation, he clasped the necklace around his neck, letting the cool silver rest against his collarbone.

He tugged it once, testing its weight, and then leaned back against the couch with a laugh that bubbled out unchecked. “Best birthday ever,” he whispered again into the empty room.

And for the first time in years, the crown prince slept with a smile on his lips.

The corridors were quiet as Oscar made his way back to his chamber, the heavy doors of the prince’s rooms closing behind him.

The palace guards had rotated to their midnight posts, and the torches flickered low along the stone walls.

For the first time all night, Oscar allowed himself to breathe.

He walked in measured steps, helm tucked beneath his arm, the weight of duty familiar against his shoulders. But underneath it all, something lighter tugged at him—something he had no right to feel.

By the time he reached his chamber, he had to press a hand against the doorframe, stopping himself.

His composure slipped. Slowly, uncontrollably, a smile curved his lips. Not the faint trace he allowed in company, but something deeper, something that reached his eyes.

“God,” he whispered, shutting the door behind him. He set the helm on the table, leaned against it, and ran a hand through his hair.

He could still see it—Lando’s smile, soft and unguarded, the one the prince had said was the best birthday ever.

Not because of the crowds, the music, or the feasts. Because of a simple gift. Because of him.

Oscar laughed once, low and disbelieving, before the weight of it crashed back over him.

“I’m fucked,” he muttered into the empty room. A knight was not meant to feel this way. A knight was not meant to love the one he swore to protect. His oath bound him to shadow, not desire.

And yet, somewhere between garden walls and tavern songs, between cloaks draped over shoulders and whispered goodnights, Oscar had crossed a line he could never admit aloud.

“The feeling’s not supposed to be like this,” he told himself, voice hoarse. “Come on, Oscar. Your worlds are already different.”

The prince was sunlight, reckless and free, destined for a crown. Oscar was stone, bound to duty, meant to stand behind him unseen.

And yet, tonight he smiled in the dark, knowing he had given the Crown Prince of Ardenvale something no one else could.

Something only Lando would wear against his skin.

The morning light crept in through the high palace windows, gilding the marble floor in gold. Lando stretched lazily, a yawn slipping out before he rolled over and found the other side of the room empty.

No knight standing by the door. No Oscar. His lips pressed into a pout. On his birthday, Oscar had stayed until the very last moment. But now? Gone before sunrise.

Across the palace, Oscar’s voice carried low and steady in the training yard, commanding his fellow knights. His mind stayed sharp through the briefing, but underneath, the ache lingered—Lando’s smile from last night, the way it had cut straight through his armor.

By the time he dismissed the guard, his steps quickened, carrying him back to where he belonged.

But when he entered the grand hall, he found Lando already waiting. Sitting at the base of the staircase, arms crossed, expression pulled into a sulk that would’ve made the palace maids scurry.

“You’re late,” Lando muttered, not even bothering to glance up. Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Late… for what?”

“For me.” Lando’s eyes finally lifted, narrowed just enough to make the words sting.

“You’re always here in the morning.”

A silence stretched between them, too heavy for the open hall. Oscar’s throat tightened, every instinct telling him not to smile, not to let his fondness show too openly.

But he bowed his head just slightly, softer than any knight would for a crown prince. “My apologies, Lando.” His voice was careful, low.

“It won’t happen again.” The sulk lingered, though the corner of Lando’s mouth twitched—as if he wanted to forgive, but wasn’t ready yet.

And Oscar… he only stood there, holding himself steady, wishing he could reach out and smooth the frown away.

Lando kept his arms folded, chin tipped high in stubborn defiance. The hall was too quiet, every servant keeping their distance, pretending not to notice the young future king sulking like a child.

Oscar crossed the room with steady steps, the sound of his boots echoing until he stopped right in front of him.

For a moment he simply looked down, the urge to sigh pressing against his chest. Then—slowly—he crouched, lowering himself until his eyes aligned with Lando’s.

The prince blinked, startled, because Oscar never did that.

“Alright,” Oscar said softly, the faintest curve of a smile threatening his lips.

“Let’s go out today. Maybe we can see the forest you’ve been talking about.”

For a heartbeat, Lando’s frown wavered. His sulk cracked just enough to reveal a spark of excitement behind his eyes.

“The forest?” he asked, as if testing if Oscar truly meant it.

Oscar only nodded, patient, steady. “If you wish it.” And Lando—finally, mercifully—let his pout fall, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He tried to hide it, but Oscar saw.

He always saw. His sulk was forgotten in an instant, replaced by a grin so wide it almost hurt to look at.

“I’ll get ready!” he blurted, already turning on his heel. “Don’t you dare leave without me, Oscar!”

The knight didn’t bother to answer—he simply inclined his head, watching as the prince disappeared down the corridor in a blur of golden hair and energy.

In his chambers, Lando was a whirlwind. He pulled on a lighter cloak, boots that could stand the dirt roads, and fussed with his hair until it fell in a way he liked. He even flagged down a maid with a wave of his hand.

“Food,” he said, barely able to contain himself.

“Pack something we can carry easily. Bread, cheese, maybe some fruit. And a bottle of that apple cider.”

The maid smiled at his urgency and hurried to obey.

By the time Lando returned to the entry hall with a satchel slung over his shoulder, his excitement was practically spilling out of him.

Oscar was already there, waiting with the calm patience of stone. “You’re ready,” Oscar observed.

“Of course I am,” Lando huffed, cheeks flushed from the rush. “Let’s go.”

They set off on foot, boots crunching against the gravel path as the palace shrank behind them.

Lando walked quick, eager, while Oscar followed half a step behind at first. But soon enough, he drew closer, guiding them down a narrow side path.

“This way,” he said quietly. “It’s shorter.” And Lando didn’t question it—he simply followed, trusting Oscar to know the way.

The forest unfolded like a secret kept from the world. Tall oaks reached for the sky, their branches laced together to weave a canopy of green and gold.

Sunlight filtered through in shifting patches, spilling across mossy stones and the silver trickle of a stream that wound its way between the roots.

The air was cool and damp, filled with the faint perfume of wildflowers and the earthy scent of pine.

For Lando, it was magic. He tilted his head back to take it all in, his steps quick and careless, eyes wide like a boy seeing a dream painted into reality.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Oscar asked, voice low, though his eyes weren’t on the trees.

Lando didn’t notice—he was already darting ahead, climbing onto a rock to get a better view. The stone was slick with moss, and before his foot could slip, a strong hand closed around his.

Oscar steadied him, firm but gentle, his palm warm against Lando’s fingers.

“Careful,” he murmured.

Lando looked down at their joined hands, then up at Oscar. His grin widened. “You always ruin my fun.”

“I keep you from falling on your face,” Oscar corrected softly.

The path grew steeper, roots curling like steps carved by nature herself. Each time the earth grew uneven, Oscar’s hand found Lando’s again—steadying him when the slope was too high, guiding him when the soil threatened to slide away.

And though Lando laughed and complained, he never once pulled away.

The trees thinned at last, spilling into a sunlit clearing carpeted with soft grass and wild daisies. A small brook murmured along the edge, its waters bright as glass, and the air was heavy with the sweetness of clover.

Lando dropped onto the grass without hesitation, tossing the satchel down and tugging out bread, cheese, and the apples he had demanded earlier. “Finally,” he sighed, biting into the bread like a boy who had outrun his tutors.

Oscar sat beside him more slowly, laying his sword within reach, his posture still disciplined even here.

But when Lando nudged the apples toward him with a crooked grin, something in him softened. He took one, more for Lando’s sake than his own.

The meal was simple, yet Lando ate with the kind of joy that made it feel like a feast. Every laugh that spilled from his lips tugged at Oscar’s chest, every crinkle of his green eyes catching him off guard.

He should have looked away. He should have fixed his gaze on the trees, the brook, the sky.

But instead, Oscar found himself staring—at the curl of Lando’s smile, at the flecks of sunlight in his hair, at the way his eyes caught the green of the forest and made it their own.

And for Lando, it was simpler still. Oscar’s presence—quiet, steady, unshakable—wrapped around him like warmth on a cold day.

Sitting there with his knight, he felt something he never quite found in the palace, safe.

Seen. Enough.

He chewed his bread slowly, watching Oscar from the corner of his eye. His chest ached with a strange fullness he didn’t dare name.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The clearing held their silence like a secret.

Lando leaned back against the broad trunk of an ancient oak, his half-eaten apple forgotten in his hand. His gaze stretched past the treeline, toward horizons he could never reach, not as crown prince.

His voice came low, almost fragile. “If I had the power to stop this… I’d stop it here. This place. With you.”

The words landed heavy in the stillness. The brook whispered nearby, the birds called in the canopy, but Oscar heard nothing past the pounding of his own heart.

He told himself Lando meant safety. Comfort. That what the prince wanted was the shield of his knight, the constant presence that kept danger at bay.

Not… not this, not the way Oscar’s chest ached to believe otherwise.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled into the grass. Logic warred with longing, the soldier in him clashing with the man.

“Your Highness—” he began, but Lando cut him a sharp look, green eyes sparking.

“Lando,” he corrected quietly. “Just Lando. When it’s only us.”

Oscar’s throat worked around the name. He dipped his head in the faintest nod, but said nothing more. His heart thundered like it might give him away, yet his face stayed steady, calm, unreadable.

Beside him, Lando sighed, tilting his head back against the tree with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good. Then I’ll pretend… just for a little while longer.”

Oscar didn’t dare ask what he meant.

The afternoon stretched long and golden, the forest hushed as though it knew to keep its secrets.

Lando’s chatter faded at last, his words softening into the heavy quiet of drowsiness.

Oscar sat rigid against the tree, every sense sharpened. He didn’t notice the birds overhead or the breeze through the leaves—only the weight that shifted slowly, surely, until Lando’s head tipped and came to rest against his shoulder.

For a heartbeat, Oscar froze.

The curls brushed against his cheek, soft and wild, carrying the faint scent of sun and apple and something unnameably Lando.

Each breath tangled in Oscar’s chest, shallow and too fast, betraying the calm mask he wore. He shouldn’t notice this. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t—

But he did. His eyes fell to the boy he had sworn to protect—the reckless prince, the crown’s heir, the one person he could never allow himself to want.

And yet here he was, shoulders locked, heart slamming against his ribs, as if the simple weight of Lando’s head could undo every wall he had built.

“This is too dangerous,” Oscar whispered to himself, so low the forest swallowed it whole.

Still, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. So he sat there, a knight trapped by his own vows, and let the warmth of the prince seep into him, as though he were just a man and not bound by duty.

Oscar sat still as stone, every muscle strung taut, willing himself not to shift, not to breathe too deeply, not to give away how undone he was by the weight of Lando’s head against his shoulder.

And then— a small sound, light and unmistakable. Lando giggling. Oscar’s breath caught. He tilted his head slightly, only to find green eyes already open, shimmering with mischief.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rougher than he intended. “Mhm.” Lando didn’t lift his head. Instead, he burrowed closer, letting his curls tickle Oscar’s jaw.

“You’re so warm. Smell good too.” Oscar’s body went rigid, as if sheer discipline could keep him from shattering.

“Lando—”

“Don’t Lando me,” the prince interrupted, grinning into his shoulder.

“You’ve gone all stiff. Before, you were better—like a proper pillow.” He gave Oscar’s arm a small tap.

“Come on, make your body back the way it was. I want my pillow back.”

Oscar swallowed hard. His heart hammered, logic screamed at him to move, to put space between them—but Lando’s voice was raw with trust, with affection he didn’t even know he was giving.

Slowly, carefully, Oscar let the tension seep from his shoulders, lowering himself back into the posture he’d had before. Lando sighed in contentment, melting into the warmth with a smile.

“That’s better,” he whispered and Oscar, silent and helpless, let himself be held captive by the weight of a boy who would never know how close his knight was to breaking.

The palace garden basked in soft afternoon light, roses spilling color across the hedges while the fountain sang gently in the center.

At a stone table beneath the shade of ivy, the king and queen sat with their cups of steaming tea, a rare hour of peace stolen from duty.

The queen lifted her cup delicately, her gaze thoughtful. “Lando went to the forest today,” she said at last.

“With Oscar. Is that… alright?” The king’s mouth curved, a quiet smile breaking the lines of his face. “I trust Oscar with my heart.”

He said it without hesitation, without a flicker of doubt, and for a moment the queen only studied him, her dark eyes narrowing just so.

Then she took a long sip of her tea, setting it back down with a soft clink. “I know you,” she murmured, arching a brow. “You have a secret plan for that boy. For both of them. So tell me.”

The king chuckled under his breath, leaning back against his chair. His gaze drifted toward the castle’s towers, as though he could see through the stone to where their son might be returning.

“Plans,” he echoed, tone almost wistful,“Perhaps. But some things are better left to grow on their own, don’t you think?”

The queen’s lips curved knowingly, though she said nothing more. Instead, she raised her cup again, sipping slowly—content to let the silence bloom between them, though both knew it was anything but empty.

The sun dipped lower, spilling long shadows between the trees. Birds called their last songs of the day, and the brook’s murmur deepened with the cool air creeping in.

Oscar rose from where he sat, brushing the grass from his cloak. “We should head back,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

“The forest changes at night. It’s not as safe.”

Lando stayed leaning against the oak, legs stretched out, the necklace Oscar had given him glinting faintly against his clothes. He tipped his head toward the sky, watching the colors fade from gold to indigo.

“They say the forest turns magical at night,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, sharper, he looked at Oscar with a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Well—you’re here, so I’m not alone. Please, Oscar… can’t we wait?”

Oscar stilled. The plea lodged itself in his chest, warmer and heavier than it had any right to be. He should insist. He should remind Lando of curfews, of guards who would start asking questions, of duty. He should—

But Lando’s eyes shone with a quiet wonder, his curls catching the dying light, his voice threaded with trust that made it impossible to refuse.

Oscar drew a long breath, slow and steady. “Just for a while,” he said at last, the words falling softer than he intended.

Lando’s grin broke wide, bright enough to rival the first stars above them.

Night unfurled slowly, draping the forest in velvet shadow. Then, as if the air itself had cracked open, tiny sparks of light began to blink into being—first one, then another, then a hundred, until the clearing shimmered with the glow of fireflies.

Lando’s gasp was sharp and breathless. He scrambled to his feet, spinning once beneath the canopy, laughter spilling out of him.

“Oscar—look! I told you it was real!”

The fireflies danced around him, tracing golden arcs through the air, catching in his curls, glowing against the green of his eyes. His wonder was so pure it made the whole forest feel alive.

But Oscar didn’t look at the fireflies. His gaze stayed fixed on Lando, on the joy painting every line of his face, on the way the light clung to him as though the world itself wanted to keep him shining.

His chest tightened, every instinct warring with the ache rising inside him. Then Lando stilled. Slowly, he turned his head, catching Oscar’s stare in the flickering glow. Their eyes met—green to brown, sharp to soft—and neither of them moved.

The fireflies swirled around them, but the night had narrowed to this, the space between a prince and his knight, close enough that a breath could close the distance.

Oscar’s pulse thundered, his body taut with restraint, while Lando tilted his head the slightest bit, as though daring him.

Too close. Too intimate. Too dangerous. And yet—neither of them looked away. The fireflies wheeled above them like stars brought down to earth, their golden glow painting the clearing in soft, flickering light.

Lando tilted his head, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes fixed on Oscar with a sharpness that made the knight’s breath falter. “Funny, isn’t it?” Lando whispered, his voice low, raw.

“How close we are right now… and how I don’t want to move.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered. Logic screamed—pull away, step back, remember who he is, remember who you are.

Every oath he had sworn pressed heavy on his tongue.

But Lando leaned closer. A bare inch. Enough that Oscar could feel his breath, warm against the cool night air. Enough that the space between them trembled, fragile as glass.

Oscar should have broken it. He should have ended it before it began.

Instead, he leaned in too. His body betrayed him, drawn by a force he couldn’t name, couldn’t fight.

His chest brushed against the hilt of his sword, but it wasn’t duty he felt—it was need.

“Lando…” The name broke from him, rough, aching, a plea and a warning all at once.

Lando’s lips curled, soft and dangerous. His green eyes blazed like he’d just won something, though the prize was far more than either of them should touch.

The fireflies spun around them, but neither prince nor knight moved away.

Lando’s lashes fluttered shut, his breath hitching as he leaned the last fraction closer. The world seemed to still—the forest, the fireflies, even the pull of time itself.

Oscar could feel it—the heat of Lando’s skin, the whisper of his breath, the inevitable draw of lips about to meet.

And god help him, Oscar wanted it. More than he had wanted anything in years.

He tilted forward—just enough. The last barrier was gone. His eyes half-lidded, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Then—a sharp rustle split the air. Branches cracked. A guttural sound echoed through the clearing. Oscar jolted back instantly, hand flying to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up.

His eyes darted, scanning every shadow, every flicker of light for danger. Muscles taut, breath locked, instincts sharp as steel.

Lando’s eyes flew open—then, to Oscar’s shock, he burst out laughing. A sharp, delighted, free laugh, clutching his stomach as he nearly doubled over.

“Oh my god—your face,” Lando gasped between laughs. “You looked ready to fight a whole army! Relax, it’s just—probably a dog or something.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, eyes still sweeping the darkness. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Duty dug its claws back in where desire had nearly torn it loose.

The fireflies drifted lazily around them, unaware of the moment they had just broken.

Finally, Oscar’s shoulders dropped, ever so slightly. He tore his gaze from the trees and forced his voice steady. “We should go back.”

Lando was still smiling, eyes glinting with something softer, unreadable in the flickering glow. He nodded once. “Alright.”

Together, they started the slow walk back through the forest—Lando brushing close, his warmth tempting, and Oscar keeping every step measured, like distance could protect him from what had almost happened.

But it couldn’t.

The castle hallways were hushed when they finally returned, firelight flickering in the sconces, shadows stretching long against the stone.

Neither spoke much on the walk back. Lando hummed under his breath, a tune half-forgotten, while Oscar kept his silence like a shield.

At last, they reached Lando’s chamber door. Oscar halted, posture straight, hands folded neatly behind his back as though bracing himself against invisible weight.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t cross the threshold. Lando turned, his curls catching the torchlight, green eyes soft but bright. “Thank you again,” he said quietly, almost shyly.

“For making me happy tonight. I’m… really glad you’re here.”

Before Oscar could respond, Lando lifted his hand. Warm fingers brushed against Oscar’s cheek, lingering just a heartbeat too long, tracing the edge of a jaw that had never known such gentle touch.

Oscar froze. His breath caught. And then—soft as a secret—Lando’s hand slipped away, and he pulled the door shut with a final smile.

The latch clicked. Oscar remained rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the closed door, body rigid as stone.

His cheek still burned where Lando’s hand had been, warmth searing deeper than any sword could cut.

For a long time, he didn’t move. Only when the torches guttered did Oscar finally exhale—slow, shaky—and turn down the hall, the echo of Lando’s touch trailing after him like a ghost.

The door clicked shut, muffling the world beyond.

Lando leaned against it, palm pressed to the wood, his chest rising and falling far too fast for someone who had only just walked back from the forest.

His heart thundered, wild and reckless, as though it had only now decided to truly exist.

“Oh God,” he whispered into the quiet, cheeks flushed. “After all these years, I just realize it now…”

He laughed nervously, breathless, dragging a hand through his curls. The sound of it felt strange in the stillness of his room, fragile and a little terrified.

“Or maybe because now I’m twenty?” His voice dropped, softer.

“Or what, then? My heart suddenly decides they want it to be Oscar?”

The memory of the forest returned—how close they had been, how Oscar had whispered his name with that rough edge in his voice, how it felt like the world had gone silent just for them.

He could still feel it the almost. The kiss that never was.

Lando bit his lip, his grin pulling wide despite the chaos swirling inside him.

“Well… I like him, though.” He flopped onto the bed, necklace cool against his skin where it rested over his heart, Oscar’s initials pressed to him like a secret promise.

And as he closed his eyes, the warmth of Oscar’s body, the steadiness of his hand, the way he always caught him when he slipped—all of it replayed until sleep finally claimed him.

Morning came heavy with responsibility.

Lando sat at his desk, quill scratching across parchment, the endless stream of papers and duties piling high.

Advisers had been in and out since dawn, bowing, muttering about decrees and trade routes and alliances. The words blurred.

None of it seemed to matter—because his mind kept slipping back to the forest, to fireflies, to Oscar’s voice saying his name like it meant something deeper.

He shifted restlessly, tugging at his collar. His hand drifted toward the chain around his neck, the necklace hidden beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

His thumb brushed over the cool metal of the pendant, a secret comfort.

Oscar, meanwhile, was nowhere in sight. Lando knew where he would be the knight’s wing, sparring, training, running through his endless discipline.

Usually by noon, Oscar would appear, quiet and dependable, like he always did. But right now? Right now, Lando felt the ache of his absence more keenly than ever.

The sound of the door opening startled him. “Mother?”

The Queen glided inside, serene as always, her gown trailing like soft water over stone. She held a ledger in her hands but didn’t open it. Instead, she studied her son with that knowing look only mothers possessed.

“Where did you go yesterday?” she asked lightly, almost casually. Lando’s heart lurched. His quill froze mid-word. Heat rushed to his face, so sudden and so fierce he was certain she must see it.

The forest, the fireflies, the way Oscar’s breath had mingled with his—everything crashed back in a dizzying rush. “I…” Lando swallowed hard, fumbling. “I was only… out.”

The Queen arched an elegant brow, a smile tugging faintly at her lips. “Out?” she echoed.

Lando ducked his head, curls falling into his eyes to hide the pink blooming across his cheeks. “Yes. Out.”

Her silence stretched, curious but merciful, and then she simply nodded and turned her attention to the ledger in her hands as if the matter were closed.

But for Lando, his pulse still galloped, and the ghost of last night’s almost-kiss lingered on his lips like a secret he couldn’t scrub away.

The clang of steel echoed in the training yard, sharp and steady as morning drills wore on.

Sunlight caught the edges of polished swords, boots scuffed against the packed dirt, and the scent of sweat and iron filled the air.

Oscar Piastri moved through it all with his usual precision. Every strike, every parry, every step—measured, exact. He had built a reputation on it.

The unshakable knight. The calm blade. The shield that never faltered. But today, his mind wandered.

No matter how he tried to lock it away, the image returned—the Crown Prince leaning against him beneath the great tree, the sound of Lando’s quiet laughter, the way his eyes had softened in the glow of fireflies.

And that moment—the almost—when all that stood between them had been a breath.

Steel clashed again. Too slow. His guard slipped.

Pain seared across his knuckles. He hissed, pulling back just as the blunt side of his opponent’s practice blade struck home.

“Sir!” Logan gasped, dropping his sword immediately. The young knight-in-training scrambled closer, eyes wide. “Your hand—!”

Oscar flexed his fingers, blood rising in a shallow line along the side. Nothing more than a sting. Yet the yard had fallen silent, sparring partners pausing mid-strike, their gazes snapping toward him.

Because Oscar Piastri never missed. Never. He drew a steady breath, forcing his voice calm. “It’s nothing,” he said, shaking out his hand.

“But—” Logan began.

“I said I’m fine.” Oscar’s tone was gentle, but firm enough to end the protest. He stooped to retrieve his fallen sword, closing his grip tighter than before.

The sting in his hand would fade. The greater wound lay somewhere else—buried deep, pressing against a heart he had no right to let slip.

Still, as the others returned to their drills, Oscar lingered for a moment, staring down at the crimson streak on his skin. The first crack in his armor. All because of a prince’s smile.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, each swing of the pendulum reminding Lando of the absence that stretched too long.

By now—by always—Oscar would have appeared. Quiet, steady, ready to escort him from his office into the afternoon.

But the chair by the door was empty.

Lando chewed at his lip, restless. He tried to return to the parchment before him, but the words danced, refusing to root. At last, with a frustrated sigh, he pushed back from the desk and strode into the corridor.

The marble halls were busy, servants shuffling with trays, guards at their posts, but one familiar figure caught his eye Logan, the young knight from Oscar’s unit.

“Hey,” Lando called, his voice carrying enough authority that the boy froze mid-step.

“Where’s Oscar?”

Logan went stiff as a board, color draining from his face. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“Uh—Your Highness…” He shifted nervously, fumbling for words. “He is, well… he’s maybe still at the knight wings. Wrapping his—his hand.”

Lando’s stomach lurched. “What do you mean, injured?”

The words came out sharper than he intended.

Logan paled further, bowing low as though it could shield him from the Crown Prince’s sudden fire. “It—it was during sparring. Only a small cut, I swear, he said he was fine, but—”

But Lando was already moving.

The polished floor echoed with hurried steps, his uniform tight across his shoulders as he pushed his pace, not caring who watched, not caring how un-princely he must look, nearly running toward the knight’s wing.

His heart hammered faster with every stride, images flashing in his mind—Oscar doubled over, Oscar pale, Oscar—

No.

He shoved the thought aside, but his pace only quickened, urgency clawing at his chest. Because the very idea of Oscar hurt was unbearable.

The knight’s wing was quieter now, training drills finished for the afternoon. The scent of steel and oil lingered in the air, a few voices low in conversation.

Oscar sat by the window, a strip of linen clenched between his teeth as he wound it carefully around his hand. The cut wasn’t deep, just enough to sting and remind him of his slip. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself to focus.

But every time the linen tightened, he heard Lando’s laugh in the forest, saw his smile beneath the glow of fireflies. His chest tightened harder than the bandage did.

The door slammed open. Every knight in the room snapped to attention, startled.

Lando stood in the doorway, curls mussed, breath coming fast as if he had run the entire way.

His sharp green eyes scanned the chamber, and when they landed on Oscar sitting there—linen half-wrapped around his hand—his expression broke into something fierce and unguarded.

The silence was deafening.

The younger knights exchanged uneasy glances. None of them had expected the Crown Prince himself to barge in here.

Without a word, one by one, they backed away—bowing, shuffling, then slipping out until the heavy door shut behind them.

Leaving only two. Oscar and Lando.

For a moment, neither spoke. Oscar lowered the strip of cloth slowly, clearing his throat. He forced his voice steady, though his heart had tripped into a gallop.

“Your Highness—” But Lando’s glare was already locked on his hand, the unfinished bandage stark against his skin.

His chest still rose and fell sharply, breathless not just from running, but from seeing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words tore from Lando before he could stop them, sharp and raw in the quiet chamber.

His voice trembled—not with anger, but with something far more dangerous. Worry.

He strode forward, green eyes flashing, until he stood right before Oscar. His gaze fell to the wrapped hand, and his chest clenched as though the injury were carved into him instead.

“What happened, Oscar? You’re—” His breath hitched, ragged.

“You are hurt.” Before Oscar could answer, Lando’s hands moved, careful but insistent, gathering up Oscar’s injured one as though to shield it from the world.

He cradled it in both palms, thumbs brushing feather-light over the linen, as if afraid to cause more pain.

Oscar froze, pulse roaring in his ears. His instinct should have been to bow, to reassure, to step back into the safe distance he always kept.

But when he looked at Lando—the fierce worry in his eyes, the way his lips pressed tight as if holding back more—Oscar’s restraint broke just a fraction.

Slowly, he lifted his uninjured hand, curling it gently around Lando’s fingers where they clutched him.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, voice rough. “It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

But his calm words did nothing to ease the firestorm inside the Crown Prince. Lando shook his head, curls falling into his eyes.

“Don’t you dare say it’s nothing. You—you protect me every day, Oscar, every single time I’m reckless, every single time I slip. And the one time you are hurt, you say it doesn’t matter?”

His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make Oscar feel the weight of every word.

“You matter,” Lando whispered.

Oscar swallowed hard, throat tight. For once, he had no reply. Only the heat of Lando’s hand in his, burning like a secret vow.

By the time the sun slid lower in the sky, the palace was already buzzing.

Servants whispered as they carried trays through the corridors, guards murmured at their posts, and even the maids in the kitchens leaned close over steaming pots.

The story spread like wildfire the Crown Prince himself had stormed into the knight’s wing. Breathless. Urgent. For Sir Oscar Piastri.

And he had not come out quickly. Eyes widened. Smiles were hidden behind hands. Some called it scandal, others romance, and many more dared not name it at all.

But the whispers wound their way through stone and shadow until they reached the inner court, where the King sat with his advisors.

“Your Majesty,” one of the elder statesmen said, bowing low before straightening, a sly gleam in his eyes.

“It seems the Prince rushed into the knight’s wing earlier today. For Sir Piastri.”

The King’s hand stilled on the armrest of his chair. Then, slowly, he chuckled, the sound low and knowing.

His right-hand man leaned closer, voice pitched for the King’s ears alone. “Your Majesty, I think your plan is almost reaching its end.”

The King’s smile deepened, his gaze faraway with thought. “Perhaps it is,” he murmured, lifting his goblet in a quiet toast to no one but himself.

While the rest of the palace traded rumors, he alone held the truth of the future he envisioned—for his son, and for the knight sworn to protect him.

The chamber was quiet, heavy with the weight of words left unsaid. Their hands remained clasped, neither yielding, as if both had forgotten how to let go.

Oscar, ever the one to find reason, broke the silence first. His voice was gentle, low. “Perhaps… we should go back. To your chambers.”

But Lando’s eyes flared, his grip tightening as though Oscar might slip away. He shook his head.

“No. You are the one who needs rest. Come on.” His voice softened, coaxing.

“You’re hurt, Oscar. Let me take care of you for once.”

Oscar’s chest pulled tight. He wanted—God, how he wanted—but his resolve held, if barely.

“Lando,” he whispered, “it isn’t about want. You are the prince. And this…” He glanced around the simple knight’s quarters, his hand still bound in Lando’s grasp.

“It isn’t… ethical. For you to be here.”

A pause. Then Lando’s laugh—quiet, raw, threaded with disbelief. “Ethical? You think I care about that?”

His green eyes burned, the fire in them enough to undo even the steadiest knight. “Oscar, all my life has been rules and etiquette and what’s proper. I don’t give a damn about it when it comes to you.”

Oscar swallowed, throat dry. He should have pulled away. He should have bowed, begged forgiveness, reminded Lando of the lines that must never be crossed.

But instead, he only sat there, caught in the storm of the prince’s defiance, his heart betraying him with every steady beat that whispered—stay.

And Lando, for once, looked at him not as a knight. Not as duty. But as something he refused to let slip.

Still clasped together, their hands did not part. Lando walked ahead, chin lifted, tugging Oscar along through the quieter corridors of the east wing.

His grip was firm, not desperate, but certain—like he had decided long ago and only now was showing it.

Oscar followed with a stiff jaw, every step echoing heavier in his chest.

Why is he not letting go? Why is he bringing me there?

When they finally reached the far end of the wing, Lando stopped before a heavy oak door. He didn’t wait for permission, simply pushed it open and led them in.

Oscar’s chamber was unlike any other knight’s room in the palace. Where most quarters were narrow, bare, and uniform, his was double the size—granted by tradition, for he was the Crown Prince’s chosen protector.

The stone walls were softened by tall shelves lined with worn books and scrolls. A single wide window stretched almost from floor to ceiling, letting in the fading gold of dusk.

The bed, though simple, was broader than any soldier’s cot, layered with dark wool blankets. The polished armor stand gleamed beside it, Oscar’s sword carefully displayed rather than tossed aside like most knights would.

It was tidy. Almost too tidy.

A reflection of Oscar himself—disciplined, restrained, every belonging in its exact place.

Lando stepped inside, still holding Oscar’s hand, and let the door shut behind them with a low thud. He glanced around, then back at Oscar with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“So this is where you hide from me,” he murmured.

Oscar’s heart hammered. The chamber suddenly felt too small, even with its generous space.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, though softer this time. “You know this isn’t… proper.”

But Lando only leaned against the edge of Oscar’s desk, refusing to let go of his hand. His eyes burned with the kind of defiance only a prince could afford.

“Proper doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “Not with you.”

Lando sat himself on the edge of the bed as though it were his own, one leg bent, fingers idly brushing the wool blanket beneath him.

He didn’t look out of place—if anything, he looked right there, sunlight fading across his profile, a prince where no prince should be.

Oscar stayed rooted near the door. His armor stand, his shelves, the polished sword—all witnesses to something he had only ever allowed in restless dreams.

Nights when he stared at the ceiling, telling himself he was foolish, telling himself this could never be.

Yet here Lando was. In his chamber. On his bed.

Oscar’s throat tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t trust himself to. If he stepped closer, even one pace, he feared he would unravel everything he had sworn to keep bound.

Lando tilted his head, gaze steady, sharp as always.

“You’re standing like you’re waiting for me to leave,” he said, half-teasing, half-accusing.

Oscar’s lips parted, but no words came. What could he say? That he had dreamed of this exact scene—that on those sleepless nights, he had imagined the prince sneaking here, imagined Lando perched on his bed with that same fire in his eyes?

But this isn’t a dream.

It was real, and that terrified him. “Lando…” His voice was hoarse, low. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

The prince leaned back on his hands, calm, dangerous.

“Don’t I?”

The sun bled low, staining Oscar’s chamber with the last golden fire. Shadows stretched along the stone walls, but Lando’s eyes—those sharp, restless eyes—still burned brighter than the light itself.

Oscar told himself to breathe steady. Told himself to hold the line. But then Lando rose from the bed, closing the distance in slow, deliberate steps that made Oscar’s pulse trip.

Without a word, Lando’s fingers found his hand, brushing across the uninjured one—soft, lingering. Oscar should have pulled away.

He didn’t. Instead, he stood there, unmoored, as Lando’s hand traveled higher—tracing over the hard plane of his chest, fingertips ghosting upward until they rested at his throat.

Oscar’s breath hitched. His mind screamed too far, too dangerous, yet his body betrayed him, leaning closer, craving more.

Lando’s lips curved, not a smile, but something fiercer. “Still think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

The room shrank, thick with silence and pounding hearts. For a single, endless moment, neither moved—locked in a battle of will and want.

Then it broke. Oscar grabbed Lando’s wrist, but not to stop him. His other hand slid up to the back of Lando’s neck, pulling him in, crushing the space between them.

Their mouths collided, not soft but desperate, fire meeting fire. It was reckless. It was forbidden. It was everything they’d been holding back.

And once it started, neither seemed willing—nor able—to stop.

The kiss was messy—heat and teeth, too much and not enough. Lando pressed closer like he’d been starved, hands fisting in the fabric at Oscar’s uniform.

And Oscar—steady, controlled Oscar—let himself unravel, meeting him with a hunger he hadn’t dared to dream aloud.

Breath tangled between them, sharp and ragged. Lando’s lips parted, and then—soft, helpless—he let out a sound, a quiet moan that sliced through Oscar’s restraint like a blade.

Oscar froze. His hand, still cradling the back of Lando’s neck, tightened once, then stilled. He broke the kiss, forehead still pressed to Lando’s, breath hot and uneven.

“Lando…” His voice was low, strained, as if holding back the world itself.

But Lando refused the distance, refused the retreat. His fingers slipped to Oscar’s cheek, tilting his face back toward him. His eyes—shining, defiant—left no escape.

“Don’t…” he whispered, desperate and certain all at once. “I want this.” For a heartbeat, the room spun between silence and surrender. The knight’s duty against the prince’s want.

And still, their mouths hovered a breath apart—both of them trembling on the edge of no return.

Oscar’s breath was ragged, his chest heaving like he’d just come from the sparring yard.

For a moment, he let himself stay close—Lando’s warmth, Lando’s scent, the ghost of that kiss still burning on his lips.

But then his hands, careful and reluctant, slid to Lando’s shoulders, pressing the smallest distance between them.

“Lando…” he murmured, voice hoarse. “We can’t.”

Lando’s brows knitted, green eyes blazing with stubborn fire. “Why not?”

Oscar shut his eyes, jaw tightening. “Because if we’re going to do this… if I’m going to touch you again—” his voice cracked, breaking against his own restraint,

“—then we’ll do it right. I’ll talk to His Majesty. Your father.” The words tasted like iron, but they were the only shield he had left.

For a beat, silence hung thick. Then—Lando laughed. Not cruel, but warm, incredulous, the sound softening the sharp edges of the moment.

“What does that even mean, Oscar?” he teased, tilting his head, curls falling into his eyes.

“You want to ask my father for permission to kiss me?” Oscar’s ears burned, but his gaze stayed steady.

“Just say it to me first,” Lando whispered, voice dipping low, intimate. His hand slid back to Oscar’s chest, resting over the thunder of his heart.

“Not my parents. Me.” Oscar’s throat felt dry, as though the weight of his armor still clung to him even here, stripped bare in his own room.

Lando’s hand lingered against his chest, steady, unshaken. Oscar’s breath came heavy as he finally forced the words out.

“Lando… if I truly want to kiss you—or if I already do—” his voice cracked, lower, rougher,

“if I have feelings for you… then it’s not right. You’re the Crown Prince. I’m a knight sworn to protect you. Our worlds are different.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and trembling, as though he’d just bared his most forbidden sin.

But Lando didn’t flinch. For all the stubbornness that defined him, what came next wasn’t reckless—it was deliberate. Wise in a way that startled Oscar to his core.

“Different doesn’t mean wrong,” Lando said softly, his green eyes steady, piercing.

“You’ve always been here. When I fall, you catch me. When I laugh, you’re the reason. If that’s what different is… then maybe it’s the only thing that feels right.”

Oscar stared, stunned into silence. He’d faced enemies with swords drawn, survived nights where his life balanced on the edge of a blade—yet nothing, nothing had shaken him like the quiet certainty in Lando’s voice.

Lando smiled then, small but sure, his hand pressing firmer against Oscar’s heartbeat.

“Don’t tell me about the divide between us, Oscar. You’re the one who made it disappear years ago.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Oscar let himself smile—not the courteous curve of his mouth that the court saw, not the disciplined mask his fellow knights knew, but something real.

Something that reached his eyes.

And it was all because of Lando. The prince’s words—so wise, so raw—had pierced through every wall of logic he had built.

Oscar’s oath, his duty, his fear of their different worlds… it all faltered against the simple truth Lando had spoken.

Before he could stop himself, Oscar’s uninjured hand moved, strong and steady, pulling Lando against him.

The prince melted into his chest without hesitation, curls brushing Oscar’s jaw.

Oscar bent his head, lips pressing softly into the wild brown curls he’d once only dared to touch in dreams. The scent of him, the warmth of him—it unraveled every bit of control Oscar had ever mastered.

“God…” His voice was a hushed, shaky prayer against Lando’s hair. “You will be the death of me.”

Lando tilted his head back, grinning wide even as his cheeks flushed red. “If that’s true,” he murmured, teasing but tender, “then I’d say it’s a good way to go.”

And Oscar—damned, hopeless Oscar—couldn’t even argue.

Dawn filtered through the high windows of the knight’s wing, pale gold across stone walls and polished armor.

Oscar sat on the edge of his bed, fastening the leather straps of his uniform with slow, deliberate hands.

But his mind was far from discipline.

It was still caught on the memory of soft curls against his lips, the sound of Lando’s laugh low in his chest, the taste of a kiss he should never have taken.

He had walked the prince back to his chambers last night, silent and steady as always—but inside, his world had shifted.

Lando knew. There was no more hiding behind duty, no more excuses of youthful recklessness or overprotective instincts. The prince had seen through all of it.

And worse—or better—Lando had answered. With honesty, with stubborn wisdom, with a raw truth that had left Oscar’s heart wide open.

He caught sight of himself in the small polished mirror above his desk. His own mouth betrayed him, curling into a smile he couldn’t quite smother.

A knight should never look this soft, this undone. But he did. And it was because of Lando.

Still, joy was not enough. If he wanted this—if he truly meant to let himself feel, to let himself love—then he had to face the consequences. He had to speak to the king, to look the man in the eye and confess the impossible.

It might cost him everything. His post, his honor, even the right to remain by Lando’s side.

But if that was the price of truth, then Oscar would pay it. Better to bleed openly than to rot in silence.

He rose, fastening the last strap, and smoothed his cloak across his shoulders. His chest was heavy, but his steps were sure.

One way or another, the day had come.

When Oscar pushed open the doors to the prince’s chambers, the last of the maids were just slipping out, skirts whispering against the marble floor.

The moment the latch clicked shut behind them, Lando turned—smile already wide, already warm.

“Mm, morning,” he murmured as he crossed the room without hesitation, curls bouncing, eyes bright like dawn itself.

Before Oscar could even bow his head in greeting, Lando slid his arms around him and pressed his cheek into the knight’s chest.

The suddenness of it made Oscar’s heart stutter, his body freezing for half a breath before instinct pulled him close in return.

He let his arms circle the prince’s smaller frame, steadying, protective—always protective.

Lando inhaled, then hummed in satisfaction. “You always smell nice,” he said against the fabric of Oscar’s uniform, voice muffled but full of mischief.

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh, one hand lifting to brush the back of Lando’s curls.

“It’s just soap,” he said, though his chest ached with how badly he wanted to believe it meant more.

Lando only squeezed him tighter, as if trying to fuse them together. “Well, it’s my favorite kind of soap, then.”

Oscar closed his eyes, holding him a little longer than he should have. These stolen moments—sweet, dangerous—were quickly becoming harder to let go of.

And yet… he couldn’t simply bask in them. Not today.

Because behind the warmth of Lando’s embrace, Oscar felt the shadow of his decision pressing in. If he wanted this—wanted him—then it was time to face the king.

To risk it all. But for now, he allowed himself this a morning held in Lando’s arms, the scent of his hair, the weight of his affection. A memory to carry with him, no matter what came next.

Lando still hadn’t let go. His arms stayed looped around Oscar’s waist, his cheek pressed comfortably to the knight’s chest as if he could stand there forever.

Oscar cleared his throat gently, patting the curls beneath his chin. “You need to go to your office, hmm? Let’s get ready, eat breakfast, then work…”

Lando tilted his head back, green eyes glimmering with mischief. “Okay, okay,” he said, drawing out the words like he wasn’t serious at all.

Then his grin sharpened into something dangerous. “But first I need a kiss.”

Oscar’s whole body went stiff. Heat climbed instantly to his face, betraying him before he could summon any knightly composure.

“Lando—” he tried, but the prince only leaned closer, still smiling, still stubborn.

There was no winning against that. There never had been.

Oscar exhaled, slow and shaky, and surrendered. He bent down, closing the gap, and brushed his lips against Lando’s.

It was brief, simple—yet somehow it left them both breathless.

Lando’s grin returned the moment they parted, smug and radiant. “Mm. That’ll do. Now I can face the boring work.”

Oscar shook his head, flustered, but there was no hiding the softness in his eyes. He smoothed a curl back from Lando’s forehead before stepping away.

“Come, then,” he said, quieter than before. “Before I forget how to say no to you.”

Lando and Oscar were now in Lando’s work chamber—papers everywhere, maps rolled half-open on the desk, quills abandoned like casualties. Oscar still stood close to him, too close, as if distance were optional in his vocabulary.

Lando finally glanced up, brow raised. “You have another briefing, right?”

Oscar inhaled, as if steadying something inside him.

“Mm, go on then,”Lando said with a distracted nod, already scanning another document. “Don’t be too long.”

Oscar inclined his head, masking the storm within. “Of course, Your High—” He stopped at the look Lando gave him, the small warning glare. He softened. “Of course, Lando.”

With that, he turned and left, the heavy oak doors closing behind him.

But he did not go to the knights’ wing.

His steps carried him down the long corridor toward the council chambers, each stride heavier than the last. The clatter of his boots echoed off marble walls, steady but betraying the tremor in his chest.

Every part of him rebelled against what he was about to do. A knight did not bare his heart to his king. A knight served without want, without weakness.

And yet here he was, preparing to confess the one truth that could shatter everything he had sworn to protect.

Lando’s smile lingered in his mind—the way it broke through every shield, every logic. The way a single kiss had undone years of discipline.

Oscar paused at the tall double doors, his reflection faint in the polished wood. He adjusted his cloak, smoothed the bandages on his hand, drew a deep breath.

If the king commanded him to step away, he would obey. If he was stripped of his rank, he would accept it. If he was sent from the palace altogether, he would leave with dignity.

But if there was even the smallest chance—just a sliver—that he might be allowed to stay by Lando’s side, then he had to try.

Oscar straightened his shoulders, heart hammering. Then he lifted a hand, rapped his knuckles once against the great doors, and waited for permission to enter.

The heavy doors swung open with a groan, and Oscar stepped into the council chamber.

The space was vast, its high arched windows letting in streams of morning light, catching on banners of the royal crest.

At the far end, the king sat alone, a single goblet of wine untouched at his side.

“Sir Piastri,” the king’s voice rumbled, low and commanding.

“Approach.” Oscar obeyed, boots echoing against the stone floor, until he stood just short of the dais. He bent to one knee, head bowed, every instinct of loyalty tightening in his chest.

“Rise,” the king said after a pause, though his tone carried little warmth. “I trust you have something pressing to say. You would not abandon your post otherwise.”

Oscar straightened slowly, his hand curling into a fist at his side. “Yes, Your Majesty. I—” His throat tightened, the words refusing to come easily.

“I must confess something… something I can no longer keep hidden.”

The king’s sharp gaze narrowed, heavy with scrutiny. “Go on.”

Oscar swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his ears. “It is the prince. Crown Prince Lando.”

At that, the king’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.

Oscar’s voice shook, but he forced the words through. “I have broken my oath of distance. My duty was to protect him, to remain loyal and unswayed—but I have failed. My feelings…” He drew a breath, fists trembling.

“My feelings for him are not those of a knight for his prince. They are deeper. Stronger. I—” He exhaled, the word tasting of treason.

“I love him.” Silence fell. The king leaned back in his chair, studying Oscar with an unreadable mask. His voice was stern when he spoke, edged with disappointment.

“Do you realize the danger of what you have just said? The risk to the throne, to the bloodline, to the order of this kingdom?”

Oscar bowed his head, shame and resolve mingling. “I do. And yet… I could not live with myself if I lied to you, Your Majesty.”

For a long moment, the king’s expression held steady, like carved stone. But deep in his chest—hidden from the knight’s eyes—his heart leapt.

At last, the truth was spoken aloud. At last, the path he had hoped for his son was unfolding. But he could not show it. Not yet.

He steepled his hands, his face grave. “You test the boundaries of treason, Sir Piastri. I should strip you of your rank this very moment.”

Oscar bowed lower, his voice quiet but certain. “If that is your command, I will obey.”

The king’s eyes softened ever so slightly, though his voice did not. “Go now. Leave me to think on this. I will summon you when I have decided your fate.”

Oscar bent deeper, heart heavy, and turned to leave. Only after the doors shut once more did the king allow himself the smallest smile.

Night draped the palace in velvet shadows, the torches along the halls flickering low. The steady room—the king’s private retreat—was quiet, lined with books and maps, the scent of ink and wax thick in the air.

The king sat at his desk with his advisor at his shoulder, murmuring over some sealed documents.

The doors burst open. Lando stormed in, his cloak trailing behind him, curls disheveled from his hasty walk. His green eyes flashed like emerald fire in the dim light.

“What did you do to Oscar?” he demanded, voice cutting through the room.

“You just needed to talk to me instead of him!”

Both the king and his advisor turned their heads, startled at the intrusion. The advisor’s brows shot up, but at a single flick of the king’s fingers, he gathered his papers and slipped out, bowing low as he passed the prince.

The door shut behind him, leaving father and son alone. The king leaned back slowly, expression grave, his hands steepled beneath his chin.

“Lower your voice, Lando,” he said, tone deceptively calm. “This is not how a crown prince addresses his sovereign.”

“I don’t care!” Lando snapped, stepping closer, palms flat on the edge of the desk.

“You sent for him, didn’t you? You questioned him. The walls of this palace have ears, Father—I hear what they whisper. What did you say to him?”

The king sighed, a low sound heavy with disappointment. “I am disappointed in you both,” he said at last, shaking his head slowly.

“Oscar for forgetting his place, and you for allowing it to happen. You are not a boy anymore. You are heir to a throne. Do you even grasp what that means?”

Lando’s heart hammered but his chin lifted stubbornly. “I do. And I also know you’ve been watching us. You’ve known for years how close we are.” His voice cracked, but his eyes held steady.

“So if you wanted to break him, you should’ve come to me instead.”

The king rose from his chair then, the full weight of his height and presence filling the room.

His mask was perfect disappointment, sternness, even a faint edge of anger. But deep inside, behind his eyes, the flicker of pride and hope burned bright.

“You are still reckless,” he said, his voice a rumble. “And you still do not see the whole board.”

Lando’s hands curled into fists, trembling. “Then show me, Father. Stop playing these games.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. The king’s face remained grave, but his eyes softened by a fraction.

“Go back to your chambers, Lando,” he said quietly. “This matter is not yet finished.”

But when the prince spun on his heel and stalked out, the king’s lips twitched—just for an instant—into the shadow of a smile.

The palace was quieter than a graveyard, the only sounds the whisper of torches and the occasional creak of a guard’s boot on stone.

Lando slipped through it all like a shadow, cloak wrapped tight around him. His heart was still racing from the argument with his father, his blood hot and restless.

At Oscar’s door, he raised his fist and knocked once—sharp but soft.

There was a pause, then the scrape of movement inside. The door opened just a crack. Oscar stood there in simple sleep attire, hair mussed, his expression freezing the instant he saw who it was.

“Lando? What are you doing here?”

But Lando didn’t wait for permission. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him, back pressed to it as if to keep the whole world out.

“I want to sleep here,” he said, voice low but firm.

“With you.”

Oscar’s lips parted, stunned into silence. The torchlight flickered across his face, showing the faintest hint of pink rising on his cheeks.

“That’s… not wise,” he said finally. “If anyone—”

“I don’t care.” Lando crossed the small chamber in three strides and stopped in front of him, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from Oscar’s skin. His curls fell untamed over his forehead, his eyes blazing.

“I argued with my father tonight. I stormed into his study, I demanded answers, and do you know what he told me?”

Oscar swallowed, shoulders tense. “…What?”

“That he’s disappointed in you. In me. That I’m reckless, that you’ve forgotten your place.” Lando’s voice shook with fury, but he forced the words out.

“And maybe he’s right. Maybe I am reckless. But he’s wrong about you. You’ve never forgotten your place—you’ve held this kingdom on your back more than anyone knows. And I’ll be damned if I let him treat you like some mistake I’ve made.”

Oscar stared at him, chest rising and falling faster now, caught between disbelief and something warmer, something dangerously close to breaking through his restraint.

“Lando…” he began, but the prince cut him off, shaking his head, curls brushing against Oscar’s jaw.

“No. Listen to me. I don’t care what he says. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m tired of secrets, of walls, of pretending I don’t feel what I feel. Tonight he tried to make me doubt us. And all it did was make me surer.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged, every heartbeat echoing loud in Oscar’s ears.

Finally, Oscar exhaled, long and slow, as if the weight of years was sliding off his shoulders.

He reached out, hands tentative, resting against Lando’s waist. “God, you’re impossible,” he whispered, but there was no anger in it—only surrender.

Lando’s lips curved into the smallest, most stubborn smile. “So let me stay.”

And for the first time that night, Oscar didn’t argue.

Oscar blinked when he noticed the small bundle Lando had carried in, tucked casually under his arm. A cloak, a folded shirt, even a small leather pouch.

“You…” Oscar’s voice caught in disbelief, eyes narrowing. “You already planned this, didn’t you?”

Lando glanced over his shoulder as if he’d been caught, curls falling across his brow, lips quirking into the most shameless smile.

“What? Can’t I be prepared?” He set his things neatly on the chair in the corner, then without hesitation pulled the sheets of Oscar’s bed back.

“Come here.”

Oscar stared. He had imagined this before—countless sleepless nights where the thought of Lando lying in his bed was enough to undo him.

But imagination had never prepared him for the sight of the prince himself, slipping beneath his covers like he belonged there.

“Lando…”

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Lando said, patting the space beside him, green eyes alight in the dim glow.

Oscar exhaled, as if surrendering a battle he had been fighting for years. He crossed the room, climbed into the bed, and the moment his body sank into the mattress, Lando turned, curling toward him.

Without thinking, Oscar wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close. The warmth hit him instantly—his body so used to the chill of the palace walls, the lonely cold of nights spent in silence.

But with Lando here? It was as though the frost had melted away in one heartbeat.

Lando tucked his head beneath Oscar’s chin, breath brushing against his throat. “See?” he murmured, voice thick with contentment.

“Perfect.”

Oscar tightened his hold just slightly, hand splayed across the prince’s back. “You’re reckless,” he whispered, though the words held no bite.

“One day, this will be the end of me.”

Lando only hummed, soft and smug, as if he’d already heard that before. His fingers traced absently over Oscar’s chest, his body relaxing as though this—this bed, these arms—was the only place he had ever belonged.

And though Oscar knew the risks, knew the storm waiting beyond these walls, for the first time in years he allowed himself to close his eyes and simply… breathe.

The night was cold. But in his arms, the prince burned brighter than fire.

Morning light spilled across the stone corridors, and as usual the palace maids began their quiet routine.

One pushed open the polished door to the Crown Prince’s chambers, balancing a tray of warm bread and steaming tea.

But when the door creaked open, the room greeted her with silence. The bed, perfectly made. The desk, untouched since yesterday.

She blinked, confused. “His Highness?” she called softly, peeking around as though the prince might emerge from behind the curtains.

But there was no sign of him. Another maid joined her, frowning. “He’s not here?”

The first shook her head, worry sparking in her voice. “He never misses mornings. Did you see him leave?”

A guard at the corner shifted uncomfortably, hand tightening on his spear. When pressed, he cleared his throat and muttered,

“…His Highness went late last night. To Sir Piastri’s chambers.” The words lingered in the air like lightning before a storm.

The maids exchanged wide-eyed looks, their whispers sharp and hushed. “To the knight’s wing? At night?”

Already, the rumor began to stir, carried swiftly down corridors, slipping between servants and guards like wildfire.

The prince’s absence was not something the palace could ignore—and the name of Oscar Piastri was now tethered to it.

Golden light filtered in through the narrow window of Oscar’s chamber, painting the stone walls in pale warmth.

Beneath the thick sheets, the world felt small and safe—just the two of them, tangled in the hush of morning.

Lando stirred first, shifting closer, his curls brushing against Oscar’s jaw. He pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

Oscar groaned, voice still heavy with sleep. “Lando… stop, I’m awake already.”

But the prince only giggled, soft and boyish, burrowing in like he had no intention of moving. “Can we just lay here all day?”

Oscar cracked one eye open, his healthy hand instinctively wrapping tighter around Lando’s waist.

“No. You need to go to work, remember? A whole kingdom waiting for their Crown Prince.”

Lando pouted against his shoulder. “Mm, and what about you? You said you’d spar again today. But your hand only just healed—what if you miss again?”

That worry laced his voice raw, so different from his playful tone a second before.

Oscar smiled faintly, brushing a curl away from Lando’s forehead. “Then I’ll be more careful. You don’t need to worry so much.”

But Lando only pressed closer, his heart hammering at the thought of Oscar in pain. “I can’t help it. You’re… you.”

For a fleeting moment, the world outside didn’t exist—no duties, no palace, no whispers in the halls.

Just warmth, steady breathing, and the quiet, dangerous comfort of being in each other’s arms.

The peace of morning shattered with a sharp knock. Both of them froze.

Oscar was the first to move, slipping carefully out of bed and crossing the room in quick, silent strides. His hand lingered a moment on the latch before he opened the door.

Standing there was Lando’s maid, eyes widening at the unexpected sight. She bowed quickly, though her voice carried a stammer.

“Forgive me, Sir Piastri… I—I need to prepare His Highness for his morning routine.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed, the reflex to shield rising in him even here. “He—”

But from behind him, Lando’s voice drifted out, lazy and unbothered. “Just let her, Oscar.”

The maid’s eyes flicked past him, wide still as she caught the Crown Prince sitting casually on Oscar’s bed, curls a mess, wrapped in sheets far too familiar.

Oscar stepped aside slowly, every muscle taut, while Lando just smiled—mischievous, bright, utterly unafraid.

In that moment, Oscar realized something chilling and exhilarating all at once Lando wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

Oscar stood frozen by the door long after the maid slipped inside, hands folded tightly before her as she moved toward the washbasin.

It was too strange—too dangerous.

Lando had risen from the bed with that same careless grin, padding barefoot into Oscar’s adjoining bathroom as though it were his own.

The splash of water echoed faintly, his voice drifting through in a cheerful hum.

Oscar pressed his palm against his temple. “He’s not even trying to hide it,” he whispered to himself.

Another knock rattled the wood. This time a different maid entered, balancing a tray heavy with steaming bread, fruits, and enough tea for two.

She hesitated at the threshold when she saw Oscar, her eyes darting past him to the bathroom door left ajar.

“Breakfast, Sir Piastri,” she murmured, cheeks pink, before placing the tray on the small table near the window.

Oscar clenched his jaw. The sight of two cups, two plates, two of everything made his chest tighten. The palace had ears—eyes too—and Lando was laying them both bare without a care.

From the bathroom, the prince called lightly, “Oscar? Tell them thank you. Oh—and don’t start eating without me.”

The knight turned, staring at the ridiculous tray, the sunlight cutting across it like a spotlight on their secret.

His heart whispered what he dared not admit aloud,

This feels like a home.

By the time Lando emerged from the bathroom, curls damp and cheeks fresh from the cool water, he looked every bit the Crown Prince—radiant, confident, impossible to ignore.

He strolled straight to the table where the breakfast tray waited, dropping into the chair as if it belonged to him.

“Come on, Oscar,” he beckoned, already reaching for the bread.

“Sit.”

But Oscar lingered near the wardrobe, fastening the last clasp of his knight’s uniform, sword settling into place at his hip. Every movement was precise, controlled, even as his heart waged war inside his chest.

“I’ll eat later,” Oscar muttered.

“No, now,” Lando countered, tearing a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth.

“What’s the point of having two plates if you don’t use yours?”

Oscar finally turned, eyes locking onto the prince’s mischievous grin. The tray between them glowed in the sunlight, absurdly intimate.

He crossed the room with slow, measured steps, pulling out the chair opposite Lando—but he didn’t sit yet.

“Lando,” he said quietly, the weight of his voice almost breaking the moment, “you don’t even try to hide it.”

Lando only shrugged, lips curling around another bite of bread. “Why should I?”

“Because…” Oscar’s hands curled against the back of the chair, his composure fraying.

“Because it’s not safe. Because the palace has eyes everywhere.”

For the briefest second, silence lingered between them. Then Lando leaned forward, green eyes alight with something fierce and certain.

“I don’t care. I’ll fight too, you know?”

The words sank like a blade into Oscar’s chest. He sat finally, unable to resist, the warmth of the morning wrapping around them both.

And for the first time, Oscar let himself eat breakfast with the Crown Prince like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world—though every bite carried the weight of a secret love they could no longer keep contained.

On the other side of the palace, the morning sun slanted through the tall windows of the royal private chamber, gilding the breakfast table in gold.

Silver trays gleamed with honeyed fruit and warm bread, steam rising from fresh tea.

The King sat tall, shoulders squared, but his eyes were sharp as ever, watching more than tasting. Across from him, the Queen stirred her tea in graceful silence, her expression unreadable.

“Any news?” the King asked at last, turning his gaze toward the woman standing at the side of the table.

The head of the maids, an older woman with hair streaked in silver, bowed deeply before she spoke.

“Yes, Your Majesty. There is… something.”

The King’s brow lifted. “Go on.” The woman hesitated only a fraction before gathering her courage.

“Apparently, Your Highness Prince Lando snuck out again. But this time…” her voice lowered, “…it was not outside the palace. He went straight to Sir Oscar Piastri’s chamber.”

The Queen coughed suddenly, setting her spoon down with a soft clink. “Straight to—” she began, her voice breaking into a quiet laugh of disbelief.

The King’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his eyes glinted with the faintest spark. “I see,” he said slowly, each word deliberate.

The maid kept her head bowed, waiting. The silence that followed stretched, filled only by the soft birdsong drifting through the open window.

Finally, the King waved a hand. “That will be all. Thank you.”

The woman bowed again and left swiftly, leaving the royal couple alone.

The Queen leaned closer, her voice hushed. “You knew this would happen.”

The King sipped his tea, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, carefully hidden behind the rim of the cup. “Yes. And now,” he murmured, “it begins.”

The chamber was quiet after the maid’s departure, silence resting between husband and wife like another guest at the table.

The Queen set down her cup gently, her eyes fixed on the man across from her. “Do you not think,” she said at last, her voice low and measured, “that people will whisper, if this keeps happening? They already whisper, I’m sure.”

The King did not answer right away. His gaze had wandered past her, out toward the rose garden where the morning breeze rustled the petals.

When he finally spoke, it was with that practiced calm that made him both terrifying and reassuring in equal measure.

“Whispers are nothing new in this palace.”

The Queen’s lips curved, though not in amusement. “And yet… do you not tire of it? Why don’t you simply tell them directly?” She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“Why don’t you just ask Oscar to marry Lando?”

The King’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp as steel. For a moment he looked every inch the sovereign, the man whose word could command armies. Then, as if a crack split through the mask, his expression softened.

“It is not for me to command,” he said quietly.

“Not in this matter.”

The Queen tilted her head, studying him with the intimate knowledge only years of marriage could give.

“And yet, you’ve been planning for this. I see it in your eyes every time you speak of Sir Piastri.”

The King allowed himself the barest smile, thin but genuine. “I trust Oscar. I trust him with Lando’s life… and perhaps, if fate allows, with Lando’s heart.”

The Queen exhaled, her fingers brushing the porcelain rim of her cup. “Then perhaps fate does not need to be so patient. The boy already looks at him as if he’s the sun.”

The King leaned back in his chair, hands folding over his chest, his gaze hardening once more. “And Oscar looks at him as if he’s forbidden.”

A pause. Then, softly, as if he were speaking only to himself “The question is not if this will happen, my queen. The question is when.”

The clang of steel and the rhythmic thud of boots echoed across the palace exercise ground, where young squires and knights honed their skill.

Yet today, the air felt heavier—thick not with dust or sweat, but with whispers.

Sir Oscar Piastri walked with steady steps, sword at his hip, his face carved in its usual composure. But he felt it—eyes following him, not with suspicion, but with something closer to awe… or disbelief.

Murmurs skittered like mice through the ranks of younger knights, who straightened their backs as though they were in the presence of someone newly elevated.

He ignored them, heading straight toward the sparring ring. Yet before he could step inside, a familiar voice broke through.

“Sir!” Logan, the earnest young knight, jogged closer, breathless as always. His hand went up in salute, though his eyes darted nervously to the others. “Are you certain you want to spar again?”

Oscar arched a brow. “And why not?”

Logan shifted, brushing his hair in that nervous habit of his. “Well… what if Prince Lando forbids it? What if he bans this place just to keep you from harm?”

A beat of silence stretched between them, before Oscar’s voice cut, low and sharp. “Is it you mocking me, boy?”

Logan’s eyes widened, and he stumbled over his own words. “No! No, Sir, never! It’s just—well…” He leaned closer, lowering his tone, though the tremor of gossip clung to his every word.

“You’ve been a hot topic all over the palace. The maids talk, the guards whisper, even the cooks in the kitchen… they say Prince Lando has all but declared you his.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. The weight of those words pressed heavier than his armor.

Around them, he could hear the hushed murmurs ripple louder, knights pretending to train while stealing glances his way.

The court of whispers had grown, and now it had followed him even here.

The ring cleared as Oscar stepped inside, loosening the blade at his side. The younger knights drew back instinctively, giving him space—not out of deference, but out of the tension that buzzed in the air.

He chose his opponent quickly, a seasoned knight nearly his equal, and with a nod the spar began.

Steel clashed, sharp and unyielding, echoing across the ground. Oscar’s strikes came fast, precise, every movement honed from years of discipline.

The other knight pushed hard, testing him, but Oscar held steady, parrying with fluid grace until sweat shone on his brow.

Around the ring, whispers faltered. Eyes no longer darted with gossip, but fixed on the rhythm of blade against blade, the sheer control in Oscar’s movements.

When his opponent faltered, Oscar ended it cleanly—disarming him with a swift twist, the other man’s sword flying to the dust.

Oscar lowered his own blade but did not sheathe it. Instead, he turned, his voice carrying across the circle, low yet firm enough that no man dared miss it.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Do not waste your strength on idle talk. Do not cloud your mind with unimportant things. Focus on your own steel, your own arms, your own courage.”

His gaze swept them—junior knights, squires, even the captains who lingered at the edge.

“We are needed for more than whispers. We are needed to keep this Kingdom safe, and this palace safe.”

Silence followed. Heavy, thick, and almost reverent. No one dared to speak, only nodding in subdued agreement.

Oscar sheathed his sword with finality, the scrape of steel against leather the only sound.

For a fleeting moment, the ground felt restored to its true purpose—not as a stage for rumors, but as the place where the kingdom’s defenders honed their edge.

The chamber was drowned in parchment and ink. Scrolls and documents sprawled across the polished desk, some half-signed, others stained by the careless brush of a quill.

The afternoon sun had long passed, and now only the fading gold of evening pressed through the tall windows, setting the paper edges aglow.

Prince Lando sat hunched forward, one hand tangled in his hair, the other scrawling with restless urgency.

A tray lay untouched near his elbow, bread gone cold and fruit beginning to wilt.

The knock startled him. Soft, deliberate. He lifted his head, irritation flashing—then melted at once when the door creaked open.

“Your Highness… Lando,” Oscar said, stepping inside.

Lando blinked, as if only now realizing how long he’d been locked in this room. The quill slipped from his fingers, leaving a small blot of ink.

“Hey… look, I’m still working,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. He gestured weakly at the stacks.

“It doesn’t end.”

Oscar crossed the room without hesitation, his boots steady against the marble floor. The late light cut over his features, softer now that the day’s training was done. He stopped by the desk, looking down at the papers, then at Lando himself.

“You need to eat,” Oscar said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then, after a beat, he added with rare gentleness,

“Or… how about a walk at the palace park?”

The suggestion hung there, strange in its simplicity. Against the weight of royal decrees and treaties, it sounded almost like a child’s wish.

But in the dimming light, it was exactly the kind of rebellion Lando craved.

He leaned back in his chair, studying Oscar’s face—those steady eyes that had already seen through him far too many times. His lips curved into the faintest, tired smile.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Lando asked softly.

Oscar nodded once. “Yes. Come with me.”

Oscar did not waste words. With a glance toward the door, he summoned the nearest maid and said,

“Wrap the food. Enough for two. We’ll take it outside.”

The girl bobbed her head, startled but swift, gathering the untouched dishes into cloth and basket.

Lando, still blinking off the fog of his work, leaned back in his chair with an incredulous smile tugging at his lips.

“You command my maids now?” he teased, though the weariness in his voice dulled the edge.

Oscar only lifted a brow, his reply calm. “Someone has to take care of you.”

Minutes later, they slipped out through the quieter halls, Lando with his hands clasped behind his back, Oscar carrying the basket. No guards followed—at least not close.

The last rays of the sun stained the palace walls in amber and violet, shadows long across the stone paths.

They said little. The silence between them was no longer awkward, but steady, alive. The cool air brushed against Lando’s cheeks, pulling color back into his tired face.

At last, they reached the palace park, where wide stretches of grass rippled beneath the breeze.

The fountains whispered, and the scent of late-blooming roses lingered.

Without ceremony, Lando lowered himself onto the grass, robes pooling around him, curls catching what remained of the light.

He tilted his face toward the sky, exhaling as though the weight of the day was finally slipping off his shoulders.

Oscar set the basket down, then eased beside him, crossing his legs in soldier’s neatness.

For a moment he simply watched—Lando’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw softening in repose, the boyish curve of his smile as he caught Oscar staring.

“Better than your office, isn’t it?” Oscar murmured.

Lando’s lips quirked. “Much better. Especially with you here.”

Oscar looked away, but not before Lando saw the faint flush rising at his ears.

The grass bent around them as the last of the sun dipped, leaving the park wrapped in twilight.

The basket rustled as Oscar set it between them, fingers working at the knot of the cloth.

The palace maids tied it tightly, practical and precise—too precise for Oscar’s hands, still stiff from the lingering ache of recovery. His brows furrowed, jaw set in determination.

“Here—” Lando leaned over, fingers brushing Oscar’s as he tugged at the knot with practiced ease. The seal came undone in seconds.

He grinned, triumphant. “You can wield a sword like it’s an extension of your arm, but a simple knot? Impossible.”

Oscar huffed, but the laugh broke through before he could stop it. “I wasn’t struggling.”

“You were.” Lando’s tone was smug, light, the kind of teasing only he could get away with.

He passed a wrapped loaf of bread into Oscar’s hand, eyes dancing. “Don’t worry. I’ll be your knight when it comes to sealed baskets.”

Oscar shook his head, still chuckling.

“You’d be a terrible knight. Too dramatic. You’d complain about the armor chafing before the battle even began.”

“Excuse me!” Lando pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“I would look magnificent in armor. The sun would glint off me like a divine beacon. All enemies would flee at the sight.”

Oscar laughed again, the sound low and warm, startling even himself with how natural it felt. “Or they’d flee because you never stop talking.”

Lando leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. “And yet here you are. Enduring it.”

The words settled between them, lighter than air yet heavier than stone. Their laughter faded into a quiet that wasn’t empty at all.

The kind of quiet that made every breeze sharper, every heartbeat louder.

Oscar looked at him, really looked—at the prince with crumbs at the corner of his mouth, eyes alive with mischief, curls catching the twilight.

And somehow, he thought, their differences weren’t barriers. They were the pull, the knot binding them closer.

Two weeks slipped by, quiet but never still. Whispers in the halls continued their dance, yet neither Lando nor Oscar acknowledged them.

Their days carried on—paperwork, sparring, shared meals stolen in hidden corners. Their nights lingered longer, a hand held too tightly, a kiss cut short when restraint overtook heat.

Always, Oscar stopped. Always, he guarded the line. But tonight—tonight was different.

The clash of steel still echoed in his bones. The thief had slipped past the outer wall, blades drawn, chaos flashing like lightning before Oscar’s squad cut it down.

His men were safe, but the edge of battle still clung to him like smoke, sharp and heavy.

He pushed open the door to Lando’s chamber without waiting for permission.

Lando, bent over a pile of parchment, glanced up immediately. His eyes lit, but the brightness dimmed when he saw Oscar’s face—hardened, jaw tight, shoulders unyielding.

“Oscar,” he said softly, standing, “what happened?”

“Handled,” Oscar muttered. His voice was low, steel wrapped in exhaustion.

He crossed the room, his steps too quick, too purposeful. “It’s done.”

Lando reached for him instinctively. “But you—”

The words cut short when Oscar’s hand caught his wrist, not gently, not carefully like before, but firmly.

Lando stilled, breath caught as the knight drew closer, their faces only inches apart.

The air shifted.

Where once Oscar’s touch had been featherlight, testing, now it was heavier, burning with something raw. His fingers lingered against Lando’s pulse, feeling it race under his skin.

“You don’t have to—” Lando began, but the words faltered as Oscar’s other hand rose, tracing his jaw with a reverence roughened by tension.

Lando swallowed, his body already leaning into the contact. “Oscar…”

For once, it was not the prince reaching. It was the knight. And in the weight of that gaze, Lando felt it—the walls Oscar had built were cracking, and what spilled through was fire.

Lando barely had time to breathe before Oscar closed the distance.

No gentle prelude this time—Oscar’s lips found his neck, hot and urgent, pressing against the soft skin just below his ear. Lando gasped, his fingers clutching at the knight’s uniform.

The sound—small, broken—only made Oscar’s mouth trace lower, tasting the hollow of his throat.

“Oscar…” Lando’s voice shivered, head tipping back, giving more, needing more.

The knight’s control, always unshakable, wavered. His grip tightened around Lando’s waist, pulling him flush, his breath ragged against his skin.

For a moment, there was nothing but heat—three years of restraint unraveling in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he froze.

Oscar tore himself back a fraction, forehead pressed to Lando’s, chest heaving.

“Sorry…” his voice was hoarse, raw. “I—got lost.”

Lando, still trembling, searched his eyes. He should have been angry at the withdrawal, but instead he only whispered, almost pleading, “Don’t. Don’t be sorry.”

He brushed their lips together, not a kiss, just a promise. “Just stay. Sleep with me tonight?”

The weight of the request softened Oscar’s rigid stance. Slowly, he nodded.

“…Alright.”

Lando smiled, small but radiant, tugging him gently toward the bed. And as the chamber settled into silence, they lay together—not as prince and knight, but simply as two hearts finally daring to burn close.

The first thing Lando noticed was the stillness.

Usually, Oscar was up before him—always already dressed, always already the knight. But this morning, the steady rise and fall of his chest was slow, peaceful, his arm still heavy around Lando’s waist.

Lando tilted his head, curls brushing against Oscar’s jaw, and chuckled softly.

“It feels like all this Kingdom's weight is on your shoulders… finally, you let it rest for once.”

He stayed a moment longer, watching him—his knight, his warmth—before a knock broke the quiet.

Careful not to disturb him, Lando slipped from the sheets and padded barefoot to the door. The maid bowed immediately, but Lando only lifted a finger to his lips.

“Shh.” He glanced back, making sure Oscar hadn’t stirred. “Go back for now… and oh, add more food, can you? Make two.”

The maid’s eyes flickered, a pause, then she lowered her head again. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Lando closed the door silently, leaning against it for a heartbeat. His smile widened.

The whispers would only grow louder, but in this moment, he didn’t care. He had Oscar here, asleep and unguarded, and that was enough.

The sun was already high when Oscar stirred. For a split second, his soldier’s instincts jolted—he sat upright too fast, eyes darting, body tense.

But the chamber was quiet, golden light spilling across the sheets, and at the table nearby Lando was already dressed, hair neat, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Relax,” Lando said, tilting his head.

“Everything’s still in place.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. He swung his legs off the bed, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as Lando waved him over.

Breakfast had been set—warm bread, slices of pear, a small bowl of strawberries that gleamed like rubies. Lando leaned his chin into his palm, watching as Oscar sat across from him, still in his loose shirt, hair slightly mussed.

They ate in the kind of silence that wasn’t silence at all, full of unspoken words and stolen glances. Until Oscar, without warning, plucked a strawberry and shoved it toward Lando.

Lando blinked, mouth half-full of bread.

“What? It’s for you—”

Oscar didn’t falter, only pushed the fruit closer. “You always love strawberries. Here, eat mine.”

Lando stared at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and warmth, then leaned forward and bit into the strawberry right from Oscar’s fingers.

Juice stained his lips, and he grinned deliberately wide, like a child being spoiled.

Oscar couldn’t help it. He smiled back, small but so real it made Lando’s chest feel too tight.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the palace, the morning light slipped through the lattice windows of the royal private chamber, scattering golden patterns across polished oak and the orderly stacks of parchment waiting for the day to begin.

The king sat at his broad desk, his quill scratching a steady rhythm as he marked figures and reviewed sealed reports.

The queen sat nearby, cradling her tea, her eyes soft but sharp in the way only she could be.

A knock, light but certain, interrupted the peace. The head of the maids entered, older and dignified, bowing low before she spoke.

“Your Majesty,” she began carefully, “there is… an update.”

The king didn’t look up from his ledger. “Go on.”

The maid’s voice lowered, though in this chamber there was no one else to hear.

“It seems Sir Piastri went to His Highness Prince Lando’s chambers last night. And this morning… they shared breakfast together.”

The queen’s teacup paused mid-air. She set it down with delicate precision, though her glance at her husband was sharp.

The king finally lifted his gaze from the parchment, his expression unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

“Breakfast,” he repeated. “Together.”

The maid bowed again. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A long silence followed. Then the king exhaled through his nose—half amusement, half triumph he would never show aloud.

“You may go,” he said, his voice clipped, steady.

When the door shut, the queen tilted her head. “You expected this,” she murmured.

The king reached for his quill again, hiding the faint curl of a smile. “I trusted Piastri with my heart,” he said simply. “And my trust, it seems, was not misplaced.”

The queen narrowed her eyes. “But how much longer until you tell them the truth of your plan?”

The king only bent over his parchment again, his silence answer enough.

The echo of boots against marble carried down the grand hallway as the king strode with his most trusted advisor at his side.

The tall arched windows spilled morning light across the stone, opening to the stretch of manicured gardens below.

The king slowed, his gaze drifting outward.

There, in the garden’s path, walked the Crown Prince and his knight. Lando, animated as always, spoke with quick hands and bright eyes, his voice carrying faintly through the glass.

Beside him, Sir Oscar Piastri walked steady and silent—yet the way his gaze lingered on Lando was anything but neutral. He looked as though the prince’s every word was a star, every movement a compass guiding him home.

The king’s lips curled into a quiet chuckle.

“Tell me,” he said, not turning from the window, “is that not the face of a man in love?”

The advisor shifted, clasping his hands behind his back. “Your Majesty, if I may speak plainly—everyone in the palace whispers the same. The knight does not even try to mask it anymore.”

The king hummed low in his chest, almost pleased. His eyes followed his son’s golden curls glinting in the light, the way Oscar leaned imperceptibly closer when the path dipped.

“Good,” the king said at last, stepping away from the window. “Let them whisper. What matters is not whether the boy loves him—it is whether he is willing to protect him with that love.”

The advisor bowed his head. “And you believe he will?”

The king’s gaze softened, rare as sunrise. “I have no doubt.”

The king’s table was set for two. A single candelabra threw gold light across the polished wood, catching the ruby-red wine that swirled in his cup.

When Oscar entered, the room seemed to shrink, shadows tightening, the tension more palpable than the carved silence of stone walls.

“Sir Piastri,” the king greeted, his voice low, steady, bearing the authority of both crown and father. He gestured to the seat across from him.

“Set your sword aside. Tonight, we speak as men, not soldiers.”

Oscar obeyed without hesitation, fingers brushing the hilt one last time before placing it down. He bowed his head once, then sat.

The first stretch of conversation was plain, even careful. They spoke of borders, of unrest, of the unyielding duties that weighed upon every man who wore armor under the crown.

The wine warmed the edges of their words, until the king’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the politeness.

He leaned back, fingers tapping against his goblet. “I know all of it, you know.”

Oscar’s hand froze midway to his lips. The rim of the cup brushed, then halted. His eyes flickered, meeting the king’s steady stare.

“I have seen how you look at him,” the king continued, calm but deliberate. “And how he looks at you. The walls whisper faster than servants can sweep. There is no veil left to draw over it.”

For a moment, silence—thick, dangerous, like the pause before a blade finds flesh. Then Oscar placed the cup down, spine straightening, jaw set.

“I will take the risk,” he said, voice firm, even as his chest rose with the weight of his own confession.

“Anything, Your Majesty.”

The king studied him long, his face unreadable, though the candlelight painted softer edges to his features. He swirled the wine once more, the dark liquid mirroring the storm that lingered unspoken between them.

The king lifted his cup, slow, deliberate, letting the deep red coat the glass before touching his lips. The silence stretched, a silence so sharp Oscar could hear the faint crackle of the candles.

Then the words came, steady and simple:

“If you love him, then just marry him.”

Oscar choked. The bite of venison caught in his throat, and he coughed hard, reaching for the wine to wash it down. His chair scraped faintly against the floor as he sat straighter, eyes wide.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he rasped, voice rough with surprise.

“What?”

The king’s expression didn’t falter. His gaze was fixed, piercing as if he weighed not just Oscar’s answer but the marrow of his soul.

“I said,” the king repeated, calm as the stone walls surrounding them,

“marry him. You claim you would take the risk. Then take the greatest one of all—make your devotion undeniable, even in the eyes of God.”

Oscar’s breath stuttered. His hand tightened against the goblet until his knuckles whitened.

The word marry struck deeper than any sword—an offering, a warning, a challenge wrapped in one.

The king leaned closer, setting his wine aside. “Tell me, Sir Piastri… is your loyalty only sworn to me, or does it belong more to him?”

The question hung in the chamber, heavier than crowns, heavier than steel.

The chamber felt smaller now, the air too thick for comfort, but Oscar did not flinch.

His spine stayed straight, his voice unshaken when he answered—without hesitation, without second-guessing.

“I belong to him,” Oscar said. The words rang clear, sharper than steel.

“And I always will. My duty, my strength—everything I am, I want to use only to protect him.”

The king’s brows lifted a fraction, though he said nothing at first. He only studied the young knight across from him, the flicker of candlelight pulling sharp shadows along Oscar’s jaw, illuminating the quiet fire in his eyes.

A man could lie to a court, but not under a king’s stare.

At last, the king nodded, a slow, measured motion. His hand curled against the stem of his glass, though he did not drink.

“My son already looks at you like that, you know?” His voice was softer now, almost reflective.

“Lando has never been close to anyone—not the nobles who fawned over him, not the scholars who praised him. But you…” His gaze narrowed, lips pressing thin. “You, he trusts. He lets you near.”

Oscar lowered his eyes for a breath, guilt and pride warring inside him. “I never sought to replace the crown or the blood in his veins, Your Majesty. Only to stand where he needs me most.”

The king’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but something lighter than disapproval.

“Then stand there. Because if my son chooses you, I will not stand in his way.”

The weight of those words sank deeper than any decree.

The night had wrapped the palace in silence, lanterns burning low along the corridors. Lando padded softly through the halls, the hem of his night robe brushing against the polished floor.

His heartbeat quickened with each turn, yet he moved without hesitation. He knew the way now by heart.

Oscar’s chamber door gave a soft creak as Lando slipped inside. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the moon through the window. No Oscar.

He frowned, glancing at the empty bed, the neatly arranged sword stand. With a sigh, he settled himself on the edge of the mattress, pulling one knee up to his chest. Minutes ticked by, then an hour.

He shifted, stretched, even laid back for a while, staring at the carved ceiling beams until boredom threatened to win.

Then—bootsteps outside. The latch clicked.

The door opened, and Oscar stepped in, broad shoulders dusted with the night air. His eyes landed instantly on the figure sprawled across his bed. He froze, disbelief written clear across his face.

“Your Highness—” His voice broke into a whisper, sharp with surprise.

Lando propped himself up on his elbows, a slow grin spreading across his lips. His hair was tousled from lying on the bed, his nightclothes loose, soft.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d left me waiting forever.”

Oscar shut the door quickly, pressing his back against it as though to block the world away.

His gaze flicked between the prince’s bare feet dangling off the mattress and the undeniable mischief in those eyes.

“You’re in my room,” he said flatly, as if speaking it aloud would make the image less dangerous.

“Yes.” Lando tilted his head, eyes bright.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Oscar still leaned against the closed door, chest rising hard. He could still hear the king’s voice in his skull, echoing like a command, If you love him, then just marry him.

It didn’t feel real. The king’s approval?

Impossible.

Yet here was Lando—spread across his bed in loose nightclothes, hair messy from waiting, lips curved in the laziest grin. Too open. Too tempting.

Oscar’s blood ran hot, the wine from earlier still humming faintly in his veins. “You shouldn’t be here,” he managed, though his voice came out hoarse.

Lando stretched like a cat, rolling onto his side to face him, one arm tucked under his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he agreed softly, “but I wanted to. And you…” His eyes flicked down to the sword belt still slung at Oscar’s hip.

“You came back late. You look like the whole palace is sitting on your shoulders.”

That teasing—gentle, sincere—snapped something. Oscar pushed off the door, crossing the room in quick strides. His hand braced the bedpost as he loomed over him, shadow falling across Lando’s face.

“You make it sound so easy,” Oscar muttered, but his jaw tightened, fighting the pull.

“Like the world isn’t watching. Like this doesn’t burn everything I swore to protect.”

Lando’s grin softened into something quieter. He reached up, fingers brushing the sleeve of Oscar’s clothes.

“I don’t care about the world. I care about you. Stay.”

The word cracked through Oscar’s control. He bent down suddenly, lips finding the curve of Lando’s neck, the pulse just beneath.

Lando gasped, the sound sharp and needy, his hand fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s teeth grazed skin, his breath hot. Each kiss pressed harder, hungrier, his restraint splintering with every small sound Lando gave him. Heat coiled, too fast, too much—

Then he stopped. Drew back with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, almost horrified at himself.

“Forgive me,” Oscar rasped, pulling his hands away as though burned. “I—I got lost.”

Lando’s cheeks were flushed, lips parted. For a long second he just stared, chest rising and falling. Then, softly, he chuckled.

“Don’t,” he whispered, reaching to tug Oscar back by the wrist. “Just… stay here. Sleep with me.”

Oscar’s throat worked, but he nodded once, silently, and let himself sink beside him.

The candles had burned low, shadows flickering soft against the chamber walls. Oscar had changed into his sleep clothes, folded his sword belt neatly at the bedside, every movement rigid—controlled.

He thought maybe, maybe, if he lay still enough, he could will his body into calm.

But then Lando pressed close.

The prince curled against him like he had every right, his curls tickling Oscar’s jaw, his breath hot against the curve of his neck.

Oscar went stiff, muscles straining as though he faced an enemy blade.

He could feel everything—Lando’s chest rising against his ribs, his hand splayed bold across Oscar’s waist, the warmth of him seeping through thin fabric. Sleep was impossible.

“Don’t think too much,” Lando murmured, voice low, lips grazing skin as he spoke.

Oscar’s hand twitched at his side, nails digging into his palm. His heart pounded too loud, betraying him. “You know what you’re doing,” he said roughly.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Lando shifted closer still, the curve of his thigh brushing Oscar’s. “And I know what you want, even if you won’t admit it.”

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could block out the heat pooling in his chest, in his gut. His breath came sharp when Lando tilted his head and pressed the faintest kiss to the line of his throat.

It wasn’t innocent. It was deliberate.

“Lando,” Oscar warned, though his voice cracked.

“Shh.” Another kiss, slower this time, lingering right where his pulse jumped.

“You always carry the world. Let me carry you tonight.”

The words gutted him. Oscar’s restraint frayed, his arm moving on instinct to drag Lando closer, crushing their bodies together.

His breath tore free, hot against Lando’s hair.

For a heartbeat, the line between control and surrender blurred dangerously. His mouth found Lando’s temple, then his cheek, then hovered—too close, too hungry—just above parted lips.

The air itself felt heavy, charged, as if the walls would hold their secret forever.

Oscar’s groan broke from his chest, low and guttural, before he could stop it. His arm tightened, pulling Lando flush against him as if he’d finally surrendered—finally given in.

But then Lando’s laugh—light, triumphant—breathed against his ear. “See? You want this.”

The sound made Oscar’s jaw clench. His hand came up, firm but not unkind, pressing against Lando’s chest to hold him back. Their noses brushed, their lips a whisper apart, but Oscar didn’t move closer.

“We do it right, remember?” Oscar’s voice was hoarse, ragged from restraint. His healthy hand cupped the side of Lando’s jaw, thumb brushing the flushed curve of his cheek.

“You’re too precious, Lando. I don’t want us to cross that line before marriage.”

For a beat, silence filled the room. The fire snapped in the hearth. The weight of Oscar’s words pressed down like stone.

And then—Lando rolled his eyes. “Then we marry! Come on.”

Oscar blinked, utterly thrown. “Lando—”

“I mean it.” The prince’s curls tumbled as he tilted his head, mischief and sincerity tangled in his green eyes.

“If that’s the condition, fine. Let’s marry. Tonight, tomorrow—I don’t care. I just want you.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered, breath caught in his throat. He had faced blades, blood, war—but never this.

Never the Crown Prince himself, sprawled in his bed, looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Lando smirked, though it softened quickly into something earnest, fragile.

“I understand perfectly. I’ve never wanted anything more.”

And Oscar—stone-strong Oscar—felt his resolve crumble, piece by piece.

The clatter of hooves echoed along the cobblestone path as Oscar’s horse-drawn train slowed before the tall iron gates.

The banners of House Piastri swayed in the wind—an old crest, worn but proud, its history tied deep into the kingdom’s soil.

It had been weeks since he’d come home. Duty had swallowed him whole, the palace walls his cage and battlefield alike. But tonight… tonight, he needed to breathe where his life had first begun.

The carriage door opened, boots striking stone. Before the stable hands could even bow, a figure stepped forward.

His mother.

Lady Piastri stood poised at the entrance, her gown a muted wine red, her hair streaked with silver but her eyes still sharp as a hawk’s.

She did not smile—she never wasted expressions on pretense—but her shoulders softened as her son approached.

“You’re late,” she said simply. But the way her hand hovered, brushing his sleeve before dropping, betrayed her relief.

Oscar bowed his head with the respect he’d never outgrown. “Mother.”

They walked together through the gravel path lined with yew trees, silence folding around them.

It wasn’t until the doors closed behind, the heavy oak sealing them inside the warmth of the family hall, that Lady Piastri finally spoke again.

“You don’t come unless it’s important,” she said, eyes cutting to him with practiced precision.

“So. Tell me.”

Oscar drew a slow breath, steadying himself like he did before battle. His voice came quiet, but unwavering.

“I intend to propose to the Crown Prince.”

For the first time in years, Lady Piastri’s mask slipped. Her eyes widened, breath catching—shock and something else, pride perhaps, fighting through her composure.

“Oscar,” she whispered, and the sound of his name carried more weight than any title.

The heavy oak door creaked open again, its iron hinges groaning under the weight.

Lord Piastri entered, his stride measured, his broad shoulders still commanding though age had carved lines across his face and silver into his hair.

A cane balanced in his right hand, not for weakness but for presence—a weapon disguised as support.

His sharp eyes swept the hall, falling first on his wife, who stood frozen by the hearth, and then on his son, who had not moved since the confession.

“What news is this?” he asked, voice low and gravel-worn, like a man who had carried the kingdom’s burdens once before.

“You’ve startled your mother.”

Oscar turned, spine straight, though the faintest heat still clung to his ears. He had trained for this moment a thousand times over, facing kings and generals, yet here—before his father—his voice carried both steel and vulnerability.

“I intend to wed the Crown Prince,” Oscar said simply.

“I have spoken with His Majesty already. He knows of my feelings, and I… of Lando’s.”

Silence, thick and unyielding, stretched across the room.

Lord Piastri studied him, unblinking. His hand tightened around the cane, and for a moment Oscar could not read whether it was anger or pride swelling in that silence.

The flames in the hearth snapped, filling the pause with their restless crackle.

Finally, the old man’s mouth curved—not into a smile, but something like it, grim and resolute.

“So it comes to this,” he said. “Our blood, bound to the crown itself.”

His gaze cut through Oscar like a blade. “And you are ready for the weight of it? To stand not just as knight, but as consort? To guard him as your sovereign… and as your husband?”

Oscar’s chest rose and fell, his jaw set. “I am ready. More than ready. There is nothing I would not risk for him.”

At that, Lady Piastri’s hand finally found her husband’s arm, her silence breaking into quiet strength.

“He is his father’s son,” she said softly.

Lord Piastri’s sternness cracked just enough for a nod.

“Then let us see if the kingdom is ready for you both.”

The fire had burned lower, casting the hall in a gentler amber glow. Lord Piastri had taken his seat at the long table, silent in thought, while Lady Piastri remained by the hearth.

Her eyes, soft and knowing, did not leave her son.

Oscar stood tall still, though the weight of what he’d confessed seemed to linger in the air like smoke. His hands rested behind his back, posture soldier-straight, but his heartbeat betrayed him—faster, fuller, unarmored.

Lady Piastri broke the silence with a voice warm as silk.

“Well,” she began, her lips curving into the faintest smile, “I had always thought your partner would be one of those pretty, fast-talking nobles, dripping with charm and polished words.” Her brow arched with quiet mischief.

“But then again, His Highness Prince Lando does love to talk, doesn’t he?”

Oscar’s composure cracked. His face—usually unreadable steel, the knight of discipline and silence—shifted.

A flicker of embarrassment, and something else the kind of glow only a man in love could wear.

His mother saw it, and her heart softened further. “Ah,” she breathed, “so it is true. Our son, the iron knight, undone by a boy with green eyes and a laugh too loud for court.”

Oscar’s jaw worked, as if to hold back the smile that tugged at him. He bowed his head slightly, not in shame but in admission.

“He makes the world lighter,” he said quietly. “Even when the weight of it should crush me.”

Lord Piastri leaned back in his chair, studying him with a soldier’s eye, but his wife’s words carried the moment. She stepped closer, reaching to take her son’s hands in hers.

Her fingers traced the bandages, the scars of battle, the callouses built through years of service.

“Then you must hold on to him,” she whispered. “Because if he can make you smile like this, Oscar… he is worth every risk.”

For the first time in years, Oscar let his shoulders ease, the knight’s armor giving way to the son his parents remembered. He squeezed his mother’s hand, then looked to his father.

Lord Piastri said nothing for a long time. But at last, with the firelight catching the silver in his hair, he gave a single, grave nod.

“You have our blessing.”

The night had drawn long over the palace, the moon climbing higher as the torches at the gates flickered in the cold.

The guards shifted uncomfortably in their posts, their armor clinking as they tried—unsuccessfully—to reason with their prince.

“Your Highness, please,” one said again, bowing his head in deference. “The hall is warm inside, and a fire awaits you. You should not wait here in the night air.”

But Lando only folded his arms tighter across his chest, his cloak barely warding off the chill. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the road stretching into the darkness.

“He will come,” he murmured, more to himself than to them.

“I will be the first he sees when he returns.”

The guards exchanged wary glances, but none dared argue further. The stubbornness of the crown prince was already known throughout the palace, yet tonight it carried another edge—something sharper, more desperate.

The wind bit at his cheeks, but Lando did not move. He rocked on his heels, impatient, as if every minute stretched cruelly longer without Oscar.

His fingers drummed restlessly against his arm, and more than once, he glanced toward the stables as though considering riding out himself to fetch him.

The guard captain cleared his throat.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but Lord Piastri is a man of duty. If he went to his family, it is for a reason. You need not—”

“I want to,” Lando interrupted sharply, his voice carrying the raw truth beneath his impatience.

“I want to wait for him. He is mine to wait for.”

The silence that followed was heavy, only the torches crackling in the night. Even the guards, hardened men of war, felt something soften in their chests at the sight of their prince—restless, proud, and yet so human.

He drew his cloak tighter, his eyes never leaving the road. Somewhere beyond the hills, Oscar was speaking with his family.

And Lando—despite his rank, despite his crown—was nothing more than a man waiting for the one he loved to return.

At last, the guards relented. One disappeared into the palace and returned with a carved oak chair, dragging it to the gate despite its weight.

They begged, pleaded, coaxed, until finally the crown prince allowed himself to sit—though his eyes never strayed from the darkened road.

Hours passed. The torches guttered low, the night growing colder. Slowly, the young prince’s head began to dip, his eyelids heavy despite his stubborn heart.

At last, with cloak wrapped close, Lando surrendered to sleep in the chair, his golden hair falling across his brow.

The guards stood watch not only over their gates, but over their prince—his quiet breaths the only fragile sound against the night wind.

It was near midnight when the distant thunder of hooves echoed through the valley.

Lantern light caught the gleam of armor and tack, and soon Sir Oscar Piastri rode into sight, his cloak heavy with dust from the long ride.

He slowed as he neared the gates, but the guards rushed forward, not to open, but to halt him first.

“Sir,” one whispered urgently, bowing low, “you must know—your highness has been waiting for you here. Three hours he sat, refusing fire, refusing food. We tried everything, sir, but he would not move.”

Another guard, voice hushed as if not to disturb the slumbering figure behind them, added, “He fell asleep not long ago, in that chair. He would not leave, sir.”

Oscar froze in his saddle, his hand tightening on the reins. His dark eyes lifted, and there, by the gates under torchlight, he saw it the crown prince of the realm, dozing against the carved back of the chair, lips parted in sleep, cloak drawn about him like any ordinary man.

Something fierce and unyielding stirred in Oscar’s chest—love, yes, but also a sharp ache.

This was the heir to the throne, a man who could command armies with a word, and yet… he had chosen to sit in the cold night, waiting for him.

Oscar dismounted slowly, boots crunching softly against the gravel. The guards moved aside in silence, letting him pass.

He approached, step by step, until he stood before the chair. Lando shifted faintly in his sleep, as if sensing him, but did not wake.

Oscar’s hand hovered above him, torn between waking him and simply kneeling there forever to watch him sleep.

At last, he brushed a strand of hair from Lando’s brow, whispering so low only the night heard, “You fool… my beautiful fool.”

Oscar’s hand lingered for only a breath before he bent low, sliding one arm beneath the prince’s knees and the other behind his shoulders.

With practiced strength, he lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all. The guards, wide-eyed, did not move to interfere.

They merely bowed their heads, as if witness to something sacred.

The prince stirred against his chest, but did not wake fully—his cheek brushing against the knight’s shoulder, the faint scent of wine and strawberries clinging to him.

Oscar walked the length of the silent corridors, the sound of his boots echoing through vaulted stone.

By the time they neared the familiar wing of the palace, Lando’s lashes fluttered. Sleep-heavy eyes opened, catching sight of Oscar’s jaw above him.

A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“So you came back, huh?” His voice was husky, thick with drowsiness. He nestled closer, arms looping lazily around Oscar’s neck.

“Sleep with me… I’ll ask many questions tomorrow.”

Oscar exhaled a low laugh, though his throat was tight. “As you command, your highness.”

Lando hummed contentedly, already half-asleep again by the time Oscar nudged open the chamber door with his shoulder.

The knight lowered him carefully onto the bed, but Lando’s grip tightened, refusing to let go.

“Stay,” he murmured against Oscar’s collar.

And Oscar—steel of the realm, sworn protector of the crown—found himself yielding, slipping beneath the covers at his prince’s side, holding him as if no kingdom, no duty, no danger could pry him away.

The early light slipped past the velvet curtains, soft and pale, falling across tangled sheets.

Oscar lay still on his back, one arm looped protectively around the prince who had, sometime in the night, curled himself close as ivy to stone.

Lando’s face was pressed against the warm hollow of Oscar’s neck, his hair a disheveled crown of curls. The knight shifted slightly, his voice low with amusement.

“Good morning. You should wake now.”

Instead of stirring, the prince only burrowed closer, arms tightening with surprising strength. His muffled reply was stubborn and fond all at once.

“This is the comfiest place ever.”

Oscar’s chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle. He opened his mouth to coax him again, but before he could, Lando’s eyes blinked open—clearer than expected.

His words spilled out in a rush, sharp and fast, as if he had rehearsed them in dreams.

“Where were you tonight? Why did it take so long? Do you know I waited at the gates, sitting there like a fool for hours? Everyone saw—guards, servants—and then you just appear as if nothing happened—”

Oscar blinked at him, lips parting, caught between apology and awe. He had faced blades, arrows, the weight of duty, but nothing quite disarmed him like the sight of the crown prince, hair mussed from sleep, accusing him with eyes too bright and voice too quick.

“Lando…” Oscar’s tone softened, guilt and tenderness threading through. “You waited that long?”

The prince scowled, but his grip did not loosen.

“Of course I did. Where else would I be but waiting for you?”

Oscar smoothed a hand down Lando’s hair, coaxing the scowl into something softer. “I went back to my family,” he said quietly.

“There was something that needed to be discussed.”

Lando blinked, his lips still pursed, but the fight in his eyes eased. He searched Oscar’s face for a long moment before finally nodding.

“Alright… I understand.”

The knight exhaled, relief steadying him. For a heartbeat, silence stretched—warm, familiar, their breath mingling in the stillness of morning.

Then Oscar tipped his head, his voice low, testing the waters of what came next.

“How about, this evening… we go to the forest again?”

The change in Lando was instant—his whole face lit, eyes widening with boyish delight that cut through the weight of titles and duty.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, curls falling forward, grinning as if the entire world had just been promised to him.

“Really? You mean it?”

Oscar’s lips curved faintly, hiding what lay beneath the simple invitation. “Really.”

Because tucked deep in the lining of his coat, carefully guarded, rested the small velvet pouch his mother had pressed into his hand.

Rings of his family’s line—passed from father to son, knight to knight. Tonight, he would kneel not as Sir Piastri sworn to crown, but as Oscar, a man asking for the prince’s heart forever.

And as Lando beamed at him, sunlight striking across his face, Oscar thought the forest could not come soon enough.

The forest welcomed them with the hush of leaves, the air cool and damp with the fading touch of autumn. Shafts of evening light cut through the canopy, scattering gold across moss and bark.

It was the same place they had stolen before, yet tonight it felt different—brimming, waiting.

Lando walked a step ahead, his cloak brushing the ferns, curls catching the light like strands of fire.

Every so often he glanced back, as if to make sure Oscar still followed, as if he might vanish if not tethered to his gaze.

Then, without hesitation, Lando reached back. His hand, warm and sure, found Oscar’s.

Oscar’s heart lurched, but he did not let go. His grip tightened, steady, grounding himself in the feel of Lando’s fingers laced with his own.

“You know,” Lando said, his voice bright as the evening sky, “every time we come here, it feels like the forest is ours. No court, no whispers, no eyes watching.” He squeezed Oscar’s hand, smiling so wide it nearly hurt.

“Just us.”

Oscar looked at him—really looked at him. The curve of his grin, the light dancing in his eyes, the prince who laughed like freedom and carried hope like a crown he didn’t yet know he wore.

And in Oscar’s pocket, the velvet pouch felt impossibly heavy. His mother’s words echoed like a prayer,

When you give this, you give not just the ring, but your vow.

Lando tugged his hand forward with boyish eagerness. “Come on, I want to go deeper in—there’s that old tree I love, the one that looks like it’s been guarding this place forever.”

Oscar followed, fingers still entwined, chest tight with the knowledge that tonight he would give Lando more than just his hand.

They reached it at last—the ancient oak, its roots sprawling like veins across the earth, its trunk wide enough to swallow three men whole.

Its branches arched high into the sky, tangled in a canopy that had stood witness for centuries.

Lando let go of Oscar’s hand only to sprawl back against the rough bark, tilting his head toward the fading light above.

“See? Still standing, still strong. Doesn’t it feel… safe here?” His voice softened, as though the forest itself hushed to listen.

Oscar sat beside him, close enough their shoulders brushed. He could smell the faint sweetness of Lando’s hair, the warmth of his skin despite the cool air creeping in with dusk.

Every small detail struck him—Lando’s fingers drumming idly against the roots, the way his boot scuffed at the moss, the quiet ease he carried here.

“I like it,” Oscar said, though his voice was lower, weighted.

Lando turned, curious. “You like the tree?”

“I like being here. With you.”

Lando’s grin spread slow, a little crooked. He leaned in, resting his temple lightly against Oscar’s shoulder.

“Careful. You’ll make me never want to leave.”

Oscar’s chest tightened. He lifted a hand—hesitated—then finally rested it over Lando’s.

His thumb traced the curve of knuckles, grounding himself in the touch. The words he’d carried all day pressed hard against his throat.

The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid, until at last Oscar turned slightly, his voice low but steady.

“Lando… close your eyes.”

The prince blinked, surprised, then tilted his head with mock suspicion.

“Why? Are you going to kiss me again?”

Oscar’s lips twitched despite himself. “Just trust me.”

Something in his tone made Lando’s teasing fade. With a curious smile tugging at his mouth, he obeyed, lashes lowering, his whole body still save for the slight tremor of excitement in his breath.

Oscar drew in a slow inhale, his hand tightening in his pocket around the velvet pouch.

This is it.

Lando’s eyes stayed shut, lips curved in the faintest smile, his curls stirring in the evening breeze. The forest was hushed, as if the world itself leaned closer.

Oscar’s throat tightened. He’d faced battlefields, bloodied blades, nights that stretched too long with duty—but nothing had ever felt as terrifying, or as certain, as this moment.

“You know,” he began softly, his voice catching before steadying, “before you, I thought my path was simple. Protect the crown. Guard the palace. Live, fight, and one day fade away with no one to remember me but a name on a roster.”

Lando shifted slightly, but didn’t open his eyes.

Oscar’s hand shook as he brushed his thumb over Lando’s knuckles.

“But then… you. You made me want more. You made me want to be better—not just a knight who serves, but a man who loves, who builds, who hopes.”

He drew in a breath, his chest aching with the sheer truth of it.

“You’re the only one who’s ever made me think I could be more than steel and duty. You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to spend every breath with. And god, Lando, the only one I’ve ever let this close.”

His other hand slipped from his pocket, the velvet pouch now warm from being held so long. With careful fingers, he pulled the ring free—the Piastri family’s heirloom, a band of gold cradling a sapphire deep as twilight.

The ring caught the fading light, glinting between them.

Oscar swallowed hard, his voice lowering to a whisper that still carried through the quiet grove.

“Marry me.”

Lando’s eyes flew open, green irises catching the shimmer of the jewel—and then widening, bright and wild and wet all at once.

“Wait—what?” His voice cracked, half-laugh, half-breathless gasp.

Oscar didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He held the ring steady between them, his gaze unshaken. “Marry me, Lando.”

The forest held still, and for a heartbeat, only the two of them existed.

For a moment, silence stretched—only the rustle of leaves above and the pounding of two hearts below.

Then Lando blinked rapidly, his lips twitching, his chest heaving like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry first. He did both.

A strangled giggle tore out, choked by the tears spilling fast down his cheeks.

“God, Oscar,” he breathed, wiping at his face with the back of his hand and failing miserably.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Oscar only tightened his grip, the ring glinting in his palm.

“You think—” Lando hiccupped through a laugh, eyes swimming green and gold, “—you think you can just show up with your stupid perfect words and your perfect sapphire and your stupid face—and expect me not to say yes?”

Oscar’s mouth parted, but Lando surged on, voice cracking, fierce in its messiness.

“Of course it’s yes! It’s always been yes! You’re it for me, Oscar Piastri—you’ve always been it!”

The words broke on a sob, but his grin was brighter than the sun sinking behind the trees. He shoved his hand forward, fingers trembling.

“Now put the damn ring on me before I change my mind and marry your horse instead.”

Oscar huffed a breathless laugh—half relief, half disbelief—and with steady hands slid the ring onto Lando’s finger. The sapphire settled there like it had been waiting all along, catching the last threads of light.

And then—Oscar pulled him close, his lips claiming Lando’s in a kiss that was nothing like the ones before.

It was deep, reverent, desperate and sure all at once, tasting of tears and laughter and forever.

Lando clung to him, his free hand fisting in the front of Oscar’s shirt, his heart hammering so fast he thought it might burst.

When they finally broke for air, his forehead pressed to Oscar’s, he whispered, breathless and fierce,

“Mine. Always mine.”

Oscar’s lips curved into the smallest, most certain smile. “Always.”

The forest seemed to sigh with them, as though it too had been waiting for this.

Lando held his hand up, turning it this way and that, the sapphire catching the flicker of fireflies that had begun to gather again as dusk deepened.

His grin was irrepressible, wide and boyish, almost disbelieving.

“So now I’m a fiancé?” he whispered, then said it louder, testing the word like it was foreign and sweet on his tongue.

“Oh my god. I’m a fiancé. Oscar—” he turned, eyes blazing green in the half-light, “—did you actually already talk to my father?”

Oscar’s lips curved, calm as ever, though there was a heat in his gaze that gave him away. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Lando nearly squeaked, clutching Oscar’s arm. “You—you went to him first? Oh my god, that’s why you were so late the other night. That’s why you—” He broke off, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep. “Oscar Piastri, you sly bastard!”

Oscar only chuckled, one hand lifting to steady Lando’s frantic movements, thumb brushing the back of his knuckles where the ring now sat snug. “I told him what I wanted. What I’ve always wanted.” His voice softened, dropping into something private, meant only for Lando. “And he gave me his blessing.”

For once, the crown prince was utterly struck silent. His lips parted, eyes shining too bright to hide, and then he launched himself forward, arms tight around Oscar’s neck, nearly knocking them both back into the grass.

“Blessing,” Lando repeated against his shoulder, half in awe, half in giddy disbelief. “He said yes. My father said yes. You’re insane. You’re brilliant. You’re mine.”

Oscar laughed quietly into his curls, arms wrapping steady around him. “All true.”

And for a while, they stayed there beneath the trees, two silhouettes tangled together, the weight of kingdoms forgotten—just a boy with a ring and another with a heart too full to contain.

The royal solar was warm with late-morning light, the air soft with the scent of lavender drifting in from the balcony. The queen sat upright on her chaise, embroidery forgotten in her lap as her eyes fixed sharply on the king.

“Is it true?” she demanded, voice low but trembling with an energy she could not mask. “Is it true that Sir Oscar Piastri intends to give our son a ring? An actual ring?”

The king did not bother hiding his smile. He simply turned the parchment in his hands—the one stamped with the Piastri crest, freshly delivered that morning on a silver tray.

“Yes,” he said. “It is true.”

The queen blinked, stunned for a moment before she surged forward, snatching the letter from his hands. Lord Piastri’s handwriting swept gracefully across the page—formal, respectful, undeniably proud.

Your Majesty,

Our son, Oscar, has informed us of his intentions toward His Highness, Prince Lando.

As tradition demands, we submit this letter to acknowledge our support and respect for the Crown.

Should His Majesty confirm his approval, the Piastri family stands ready to welcome future union discussions.

The queen pressed the letter to her chest. “So his entire family approved… he truly means it.”

The king chuckled. “He went straight to them after speaking with me. They’ve sent this as a courtesy, to show they still honor protocol. Good people.”

She sat down slowly, still clutching the parchment. “Our son… engaged.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I knew it. I knew it from the moment that boy wrapped Lando in his cloak all those months ago.”

The king laughed under his breath. “You were not subtle about it.”

She swatted his arm, then leaned closer, excitement growing by the second. “So what now? When do we meet officially with the Piastris?”

“Next week,” the king replied, pouring himself a cup of tea. “We will arrange a dinner. Just the families. A formal introduction—though heavens know they already act like in-laws.”

The queen’s eyes softened, warmth spreading across her expression like light. “As soon as next week… they will be part of our family.”

She looked out toward the garden, where the late roses swayed in the breeze—imagining Lando’s delight, Oscar’s quiet devotion, the future that was coming faster than anyone expected.

A future she had always hoped for.

“Then we must begin preparations,” she said firmly. “Perfect ones. Our son is getting engaged.”

The king only smiled, taking her hand. “Yes. And I suspect they’ll come stumbling in later today pretending they’re ‘just taking a walk.’”

The queen laughed, already planning a week’s worth of celebrations in her mind.

The throne room doors boomed open, the king’s voice rolling out like distant thunder.

Servants lined the walls in nervous rows—maids with hands folded tight, advisors clutching scrolls, guards standing tall in polished armor. Even members of parliament had been summoned from their chambers, confusion flickering across every face.

The king stood before them, chin high, eyes shining with a pride he barely tried to conceal.

“There will be a formal dinner held in one week’s time,” he announced, his voice echoing through the marble hall. “A union we have long wished for is soon to be made official.”

Gasps rippled—stunned whispers rising like sparks from dry grass.

The queen stepped forward, hands clasped gracefully. “The Palace will welcome the Piastri family as honored guests,” she continued. “His Majesty and I expect the highest preparations. No missteps.”

The advisors nodded rapidly. The head maid clutched her chest. A young guard swayed like he might faint.

Someone dared to whisper—just loud enough “It’s true then… Prince Lando and Sir Piastri…”

And that was all it took.

The news ignited. By the time the doors reopened, every corridor of the palace hummed with gossip. Laughter and disbelief and excited cheers tangled through the air.

Far across the courtyard, Oscar wiped sweat from his brow, sword still in his hand. Training had just ended when Logan skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless.

“S–Sir Piastri!” he gasped. Oscar arched a brow. “What now?”

Logan’s grin was enormous. “Oh—only that all of us apparently need new coats by next week because our knight commander is ENGAGED to the Crown Prince!”

Oscar froze. Wordlessly. Painfully.

Logan blinked. “Um… should I congratulate you now, sir?”

Another knight shouted from across the yard “MARRYING UP, AREN’T WE?”

Someone else whistled. Another clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his ribs.

Oscar’s ears burned crimson. But beneath the embarrassment—the awkward laughter—the stunned blinking—there was a truth he couldn’t hide.

He straightened his shoulders. His grip tightened around the sword.

“Yes,” he said simply, voice steady and real. “I am.”

And the younger knights erupted into cheers, stomping boots against the dirt, shouting his and Lando’s names like a victory chant.

Oscar tried to bite back a smile…But failed terribly.

Because the kingdom finally knew— and he had never felt prouder in his life.

The sky outside Lando’s chamber had deepened into violet, the last threads of sunset fading behind the palace towers. His room was quiet—too quiet—save for the soft rustle of curtains shifting with the breeze.

Lando sat curled on the cushioned seat beneath the tall window, chin resting on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once. Candlelight flickered behind him, painting gold across his cheekbones.

A gentle knock.

Then the door opened.

“Oscar?” Lando’s voice lifted instantly, soft and relieved.

Sir Piastri stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet click. His armor was gone, replaced by simple evening clothes, and yet he still carried that presence—solid, steady, grounding.

He crossed the room slowly.

“…So the news has spread,” Oscar murmured.

Lando looked over his shoulder, lips parted in a smile so wide and unguarded it made Oscar’s heart stumble.

“I figured,” Lando said breathlessly. “Three guards congratulated me on my way here. One of them bowed so low he nearly fell.”

Oscar exhaled a laugh—warm, helpless.

Lando’s smile softened. “But… I’m nervous,” he admitted. “About the dinner. About everyone watching. About being… official.”

Oscar came behind him then—slow, deliberate—and leaned down, sliding his arms around Lando’s waist. His hands settled on Lando’s stomach, strong and sure, pulling him back into the warmth of his chest.

Lando melted instantly, head falling back against Oscar’s shoulder.

“Everything will be alright,” Oscar murmured against his temple. “We’ll do it properly. With the traditions your family respects. With the honor your name deserves.”

Lando huffed a tiny, embarrassed laugh.

“Right, right… formal engagement rites… ancestral witnessing… ceremonial vows…” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m really marrying a traditional man.”

Oscar smiled into Lando’s hair, tightening his embrace just a fraction.

“You are,” he teased softly. “So you’d better be prepared.”

Lando turned his head enough to brush his cheek against Oscar’s jaw.

“Oh, I’m prepared,” he whispered. “I said yes, didn’t I?”

Oscar’s breath hitched—just enough for Lando to notice.

Then Lando grinned, pulling Oscar’s arms tighter around him.

“And I’d say yes again. Every time.”

The palace had never looked like this.

Silk banners hung from the balconies, pale gold and soft blue shimmering whenever the breeze touched them. Lanterns glowed along the colonnades like captured stars. The scent of fresh petals—rose, jasmine, a hint of orange blossom—drifted through every corridor.

It was the night of the formal dinner. The night the two families would meet as one.

Lando stood before his mirror, hands gripping the carved edges of the table.

He looked… radiant.

Or maybe just nervous.

He had bathed twice, dunking himself into water perfumed with enough flowers to drown a horse. The maids had laughed under their breath, but he didn’t care—he knew exactly which scents Oscar lingered close to, the ones that pulled him in like he couldn’t control himself.

Lando touched the collar of his ceremonial attire, exhaled shakily, then turned toward the door when a maid peeked in. “Your Highness… it is time.” Lando nodded. “Let’s… go.” He walked toward the grand hall, his heart fluttering like something caged and ecstatic.

Outside the palace gates, Oscar stood tall in his formal knight’s attire, though his fingers betrayed him, tapping against the hilt of his sheathed sword.

He had arrived early.

Of course he had. It was his parents’ carriage he was waiting for… but it was Lando he was thinking of.

He kept imagining him—nervous hands, over-perfumed skin, eyes warm and bright. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

The sound of wheels on gravel snapped him from his thoughts.

The Piastri family carriage arrived, dark and elegant, trimmed with the modest nobility the family had always carried with quiet pride. Oscar stepped forward immediately.

His mother descended first, regal in a deep blue gown. His father followed, offering a firm nod.

“Oscar,” his mother greeted, taking his hands. “You look… handsome.”

“Mother,” he murmured, cheeks warming.

His father clasped his shoulder. “Well. Tonight is a big night. Lead us well.”

Oscar swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

A palace attendant approached with a bow. “Sir Piastri—Their Majesties are waiting inside.”

Inside the great hall, the king and queen waited with an anticipation even the tapestries could feel.

The king straightened his cloak. “Tonight,” he murmured to the queen, “our family grows.”

She smiled, fingers brushing his sleeve. “And the palace will not stop whispering for months.”

A courtier hurried in breathlessly.  “Your Majesties— Sir Oscar Piastri and his family have arrived at the gates.” The king exhaled. “Good,” he said, eyes shining. “Let us welcome them properly.”

Beside him, the queen’s gaze drifted toward the archway where Lando would soon appear. “My son,” she murmured, “please don’t faint from nerves…”

The king gave a small chuckle. “Knowing him, he bathed in enough flowers to scent the entire kingdom.”

They both knew it was true. The hall doors opened. The night—heavy with promise, tradition, and undeniable love—had finally begun.

The great hall shimmered under the soft glow of a hundred hanging lanterns, each flame reflected in polished silver and crystal. Servants moved with quiet precision, the hum of the evening settling like a warm blanket over the gathering.

Oscar entered beside his parents, shoulders squared—yet his eyes, unconsciously, searched for one person.

The king stepped forward first, regal yet warm.

“Lady Piastri,” he greeted with a courteous bow of his head. “Lord Piastri. Your presence honors this palace tonight.”

Oscar’s mother dipped gracefully. “The honor is ours, Your Majesty.”

His father offered a bow sharp with respect but softened by genuine pride. “Thank you for receiving us.”

Before the king could respond, the soft echo of hurried steps stole the room’s attention.

Lando appeared.

And Oscar nearly forgot how to breathe.

The prince stood framed in the tall archway, dressed in pale silk touched with gold, his cheeks faintly flushed—likely from nerves, or from having run the last few steps. And yes… he smelled of too many flowers. A soft sweetness drifting across the hall.

Oscar’s lips twitched. He had known it.

The queen hid a smile behind her hand. The king exhaled a fond sigh.

The families bowed to one another, though Lando’s eyes drifted only, only toward Oscar.

They took their seats at the long dining table, its surface covered in gleaming silver trays and dishes made for celebration—not overly extravagant, but meaningful. A joining of families, not a display of power.

Lando sat beside Oscar—close, yet not touching. Their knees brushed beneath the tablecloth anyway.

Maids poured wine. Plates were filled.

The first person to speak after the initial courtesies was Lord Piastri.

He cleared his throat gently. “As parents,” he began, “it is our duty to understand the intentions behind this… union.” His eyes shifted between the king, queen, Oscar, and Lando. “And to support it properly.”

The king nodded, hands folding atop the table. “Indeed. Tonight is for clarity and respect. For both our households.”

The queen added softly, “And for celebration.”

Oscar’s mother smiled warmly. “We wish only to ensure that our son and His Highness move forward with care—and with a path that honors both families.”

Oscar straightened, but the king lifted a hand, taking the lead with gentle authority.

“There will be a formal royal engagement first,” the king said. “Announced publicly. It will follow tradition—blessings, oaths, and the exchange of tokens before the court.”

Lando swallowed hard. He bit his lower lip—nervous, excited, overwhelmed. Oscar’s gaze dropped instantly to the gesture. He wanted to reach under the table and take Lando’s hand.

He didn’t. But the urge burned.

The king continued, “Following the engagement, we must begin discussing a wedding date. It must be soon enough to honor the sincerity of this union… but with appropriate preparation befitting a future king’s marriage.”

Oscar’s father hummed thoughtfully. “We will adhere to any custom required. Our only request is fairness to both families in the arrangements.”

“I assure you,” the king said gently, “your son is already part of ours.” Oscar’s throat tightened.

Lando inhaled sharply, eyes flicking toward his father—and then to Oscar, where they softened into something like awe.

Oscar managed the smallest smile. The world felt impossibly big and impossibly small all at once.

Dinner continued—negotiations, agreements, shared hopes passed across the table like warm bread. But beneath it all was the quietest current: Lando’s trembling knee against Oscar’s. Oscar’s steadying presence. Two hearts that had already chosen—

And now the world was finally catching up. The dessert plates glimmered under candlelight as the maids poured fresh wine, the air warm with spice and honey. Conversation softened to a gentle hum—until the King lifted his hand.