It was a night split open by thunder.

The wind had ripped through the valley, shaking the shutters on the old orphanage and howling like something wild through the trees. You’d been awake, of course. You always were when the children stirred—when their dreams turned uneasy, or when the youngest began to cry from the sharp noise of the storm. You had just calmed them, humming in that quiet, low way you did, when the knock came.

Sharp. Urgent. Out of place.

When you opened the door, he was there—half-wild, soaking wet, eyes darting like a trapped animal. No crown, no royal cloak, no retinue. Just a torn tunic clinging to his skin and mud staining boots that were far too fine for a wanderer. His hands were shaking. His breath uneven. There was a cut on his cheek and something fierce in his stare, something terrified and proud all at once.

He didn’t say who he was. You didn’t ask.

You simply stepped aside.

He entered without a word, shoulders curling in as the warmth of the hearth touched his skin. You handed him a towel. You set down bread. Water. You pointed to the cot in the storage room. Still, no questions.

He looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You’re not gonna ask why I’m here?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him with calm eyes and returned to the quiet sound of patching a blanket, as if stray princes appeared in your doorway every storm.

That night, he dreamed he was no one.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ He left by morning, but the rain hadn’t dried from the road before he came back again.

And again.

Sometimes bruised, sometimes quieter than before, sometimes smiling with a strange kind of guilt behind it. The children came to love him easily, immediately. He was good with them. Better than he thought he’d be. They tied daisies in his hair. He let them. He carried the smallest on his back and spun them until they shrieked with joy. You watched him, silently folding laundry, fixing toys, never speaking first, never stepping too close.

But you always had something ready when he arrived.

He noticed.

Back at the palace, Suguru watched him pace.

“You disappeared for three days,” his knight said calmly. “Again.”

Satoru shrugged, trying to appear careless. “Had to breathe. That’s still legal, right?”

Suguru tilted his head. “You went to her again.”

Satoru stopped. His fingers twitched.

“Yeah.”

“Does she know who you are?”

“She doesn’t ask.” His voice grew quieter. “And I don’t want to lie.”

Suguru leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed. “You’re going to get her killed.”

Satoru turned, sharp. “She saves me, Suguru. You don’t get it.”

“You’re right,” Suguru said, tired. “I don’t. But I’ve never seen you like this. Not for anyone.”

That shut him up.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ One night, Satoru came back bloodied. Not badly, just a nick along his ribs and another on his arm. You found him leaning against the shed behind the orphanage, trying to hide the pain behind a cocky grin. You didn’t speak. You just brought the bucket of water and clean cloth and sat beside him, gently peeling back the torn fabric. He hissed as you cleaned the wound, but you didn’t look up.

He watched you the whole time.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured.

Still, you said nothing. Only tied the cloth snug and brushed the blood away.

“You should be.”

You didn’t flinch.

Later that night, he couldn’t sleep. He lay near the hearth, listening to the fire crackle, and dreamed again.

This time, you were with him—not in the palace, not in gold or silk, but in this very room, placing a child into his arms. You smiled like it was ordinary. Like he could hold things without breaking them. Like he could be something other than inherited power and distant gods. He woke up with your name in his throat.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ “Suguru,” he said the next day, pacing the edge of the balcony. “She’s in my dreams.”

His knight raised a brow.

“NO!!!! like—not that kind of dream,” Satoru muttered. “She’s just there. With me. Holding my hand. Laughing. Looking at me like I’m just... me. Not the crown. Not the heir. Just someone trying.”

Suguru didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “So what happens when you’re king?”

Satoru didn’t answer.

Weeks later, he’s back again. No storm this time. Just the clear, cool calm of a late autumn night. He sits beside you on the wooden steps, watching the stars blink above the trees. He doesn’t need a cot tonight. He just needed to see you.

The kids are asleep. The candles are low. You’re sipping tea you haven’t offered to share, but you placed a second cup down beside him anyway.

He picks it up, holds it in both hands like it’s fragile. Then, without looking at you, he says it—quietly, earnestly.

“...Hey. Thanks again for letting me escape to here... Means a lot to me.”