Suguru Geto

At twenty-seven, King Suguru is known for control.

Not coldness—control. The kind that steadies a room. The kind that makes ministers fall silent when he merely lifts his hand.

They stand to his left during court, as always. Close enough to guard. Far enough to remain proper.

He tells himself that distance is intentional.

When he rises from the throne, his sleeve brushes their gauntlet.

It happens every day.

It still makes his breath catch.

He does not pull away. He lets the contact exist for a heartbeat longer than necessary before moving forward. No one notices. No one ever notices things this small.

Except them.

Their posture stiffens—just slightly.

During council, Suguru listens with his chin resting against his knuckles, gaze drifting not to the speaker but to the faint scuff on their armor. He makes a note to have it repaired. He makes a note not to mention it.

When the meeting ends, he steps down. His fingers graze their wrist as they turn in unison.

“Your Majesty,” they murmur.

His name sits behind his teeth.

Later, in the training hall, he watches them spar. Not openly—never openly. Just enough to know their balance is off today. Just enough to know they are tired.

When they kneel afterward, helmet tucked beneath their arm, Suguru reaches out before thinking.

He adjusts the strap at their shoulder.

A king helping a knight. Improper. Intimate.

His fingers linger—warm through leather, steady where they should not be. He does not look at their face. He does not trust himself to.

“There,” he says quietly.

They freeze.

“Thank you, Sire,” they reply, voice perfectly even.

That night, as they escort him through the west corridor, the candles flicker low. Their shadows overlap on the stone.

Suguru slows.

So do they.

He glances sideways—just once. Long enough to catch the curve of their mouth set in focus, the line of their jaw beneath lamplight. He wonders when he started memorizing them in pieces instead of whole.

When he stops outside his chambers, protocol demands distance.

Instead, he rests his hand briefly against their forearm.

A silent pause. A question he will not ask.

“Be at ease tonight,” he says.

Their eyes lift to his for half a second too long.

“As you command,” they answer.

Suguru steps inside and closes the door.

He leans his forehead against the wood after.

Because for all his power, for all his authority—

the only thing he allows himself is this:

A glance that lingers. A touch that stays. A love that never crosses the line—

—but stands close enough to feel the warmth