It was morning. The storm from last night had finally subsided, giving way to the gentle warmth of dawn. Outside the palace windows, the sky was painted in streaks of orange and pink, casting an almost surreal glow over the capital. The first light of morning crept through the heavy curtains, spilling across the polished floors in muted golden hues. Elaborate paintings on the high ceilings seemed to glow softly— illuminated as the sun's first rays fell on them.
Aiden was already awake, sitting stiffly on the chaise lounge by the window. His back ached from the awkward angle he'd slept in, but he didn't move to stretch or complain. The discomfort was secondary to everything else. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp despite the early hour, fixed on the bed beside him.
Elliott was still asleep.
After their conversation last night, Elliott had asked Aiden to stay in bed with him—to lie beside him, like they once used to. Aiden had refused. Quietly. Firmly. Elliott, though clearly troubled, hadn't asked again.
Now, the light played gently over the older man's features. His face, still touched with fatigue, was turned slightly towards Aiden in sleep. His breathing was soft, steady. For a moment, Aiden let himself look—really look. His gaze lingered on the other man's cheekbones, the flutter of his lashes, the way his hair splayed against the pillow like sunlight spun into silk.
The stillness didn't last long.
The ornate clock mounted on the wall struck 6 a.m. Almost immediately, the doors opened with a soft creak. A wave of attendants entered in practiced synchrony, their movements efficient and familiar. They moved with purpose—presumably here to wake and dress the emperor.
Elliott stirred at the sound of entering footsteps. Slowly, he sat up in bed, his fingers tightening slightly on the sheets before his eyes found Aiden's.
Their gazes met.
Elliott's face was calm, but something unreadable lingered beneath the surface. He didn't speak. Neither did Aiden. The silence wasn't cold—it was cautious. There was no hostility, but the air between them remained thick. Heavy with tension. Not just from the lingering remnants of last night's argument... but something else, too.
The attendants continued with their routine. Their soft murmurs and the rustle of cloth filled the otherwise silent chambers.
One approached Elliott with a wash basin filled with warm water. He washed his face and hands, silent. Another helped him out of bed, guiding him to stand with practiced gentleness. The rest worked around him with precision—selecting robes, adjusting layers, presenting items for the emperor to choose from.
Elliott was led to sit in front of the large gilded mirror at his vanity, his fresh robes settling around him in a cascade of emerald and cream.
One of the younger attendants stepped forward to brush his hair, her hands reaching for the silver comb on the tray beside her.
Before she could begin, Aiden stepped forward. His voice was low—still rough from sleep and something else harder to name.
"I'll do it."
The girl froze, clearly startled by the prince's sudden interjection. She looked toward Elliott for confirmation, unsure.
Elliott blinked, eyes widening slightly. He hadn't expected that.
But after a moment's pause, he gave a small nod.
The attendant curtsied and stepped back, placing the silver comb delicately into Aiden's outstretched hand. Her eyes lingered for a second too long before she turned away.
Aiden closed his fingers around the comb, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm. He had used it countless times before—on groggy mornings when Elliott was too tired to bother, on nights when Aiden needed something to calm his restless mind, or on lazy afternoons when the silence between them had been warm, not brittle.
But this time, it felt different.
He stepped behind Elliott, both of them facing the mirror now. In the reflection, he could see the elegant lines of the emperor's form, seated gracefully, and his own tense figure standing behind him. Their eyes met once again in the glass.
Elliott looked paler than usual. His normally honey-brown complexion seemed dull, almost gray, and the faint constellation of freckles that dusted his skin stood out more starkly. His eyes were half-lidded, shadowed with exhaustion. Aiden had heard the restless tossing and turning last night—proof that Elliott had barely slept at all.
Aiden's chest tightened. Even now—especially now—he hated that his heart ached.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then, with a careful hand, he began to comb Elliott's hair.
His touch was gentle but firm, the motion practiced and smooth. The golden strands fell through the comb like silk, a soft whisper against the teeth. He moved with deliberate calm, smoothing tangles with a sort of delicate, quiet devotion.
As he worked, his eyes dropped. Now that Elliott's hair was lifted, the delicate line of his neck was visible. Swanlike. Slender. Dusty with the faintest freckles—ones most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked closely.
But Aiden had seen them before. The first time he combed Elliott's hair, he'd noticed them. And since then, he had never quite been able to unsee them.
The comb caught on a knot.
Aiden tugged, just slightly. It was controlled, precise. He felt Elliott's breath hitch.
As he worked the knot out, one hand brushed accidentally against the skin of Elliott's neck. Aiden tried to ignore the shiver that traveled through his fingers.
He also tried—and failed—to ignore the way Elliott's shoulders tensed, the soft flush that crept up his ears and down his neck like rose petals spilling down porcelain.
Still, neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched on—tight as a drawn bowstring. Not angry anymore. Just... charged.
Aiden finished detangling the hair and reached for a simple ribbon, tying it loosely at the nape. He could've stopped there.
But he didn't.
He turned to the attendants and gestured toward the accessory boxes, neatly displayed on the top the table. The servants hesitated—then opened them, revealing rows of ornate pieces: sapphire pins, emerald brooches, ruby cuffs, fine gold chains.
He didn't move immediately.
Instead, he stood before them, his eyes scanning each piece with an expression far too focused for just choosing jewelry. He ran his fingers over each accessory slowly, deliberately. It was unnecessary—he already knew which ones Elliott preferred. Knew which colors brought out the golden hue of his hair, which jewels made his eyes shine brighter, which metals complimented his skin and made him look like something divine. Like sunlight and crown-melted gold.
But he pretended he didn't. Pretended to weigh the options, taking far longer than he needed.
Because if he chose too quickly, it would be over. The moment would end. And he wasn't ready for it to end.
Finally, he picked out an emerald hairpin and a simple diamond clasp. Elegant. Understated. Beautiful.
He moved back to Elliott and fixed the pieces into his hair, his fingers careful, reverent. Slower than necessary. His fingertips lingered a little too long against the other man's skin.
Elliott's breath caught. This time, Aiden noticed.
And this time, he didn't pretend not to.
But he still wasn't done.
After fastening the last clasp, Aiden adjusted the folds of Elliott's robe. With unnecessary precision, he smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, his back, the curve of his spine. Every motion was careful. Every touch deliberate.
Each brush of fingers was a silent confession. A wordless vow.
I'm still angry. But I'm here. And I'll always be here.
Elliott didn't say anything. No words passed between them.
But the tension in his shoulders—tight since last night—eased. Just a little.
Finally, Aiden stepped back. His hands fell to his sides. His gaze lingered.
Elliott looked every inch the emperor now—regal, untouchable, composed. A vision of dignity and poise.
But Aiden knew better.
He knew the way Elliott's pulse jumped when someone touched his neck. Knew the way his fingers trembled when he was nervous. Knew that behind the crown, behind the titles, behind the silence—there was a heart just as breakable as anyone's.
Maybe even more.
He knew that his own words last night had cut deep. That his anger had shaken something inside Elliott. That he had every right to be furious—and still, his heart ached for the man sitting before him.
Damn him.
Damn him for being so beautiful even now. For being so precious that even in anger, Aiden couldn't stop worrying. Couldn't stop aching.
Damn him for making Aiden's fury feel so hollow.