If someone had told Changbin a few weeks ago that he would willingly spend extra time with his personal guard, he would have laughed.

And yet—here they were.

It didn’t happen all at once. There was no grand realization, no dramatic shift. It was small things. Tiny moments that built into something neither of them acknowledged, yet neither of them denied.

It was the way Chan started lingering after training, even when there was no reason to.
It was the way Changbin found himself wandering to wherever Chan happened to be, even when he could have been somewhere else.
It was the way they kept meeting at night in the garden, until it wasn’t even planned anymore—it was just… expected.

And the most dangerous part?

Changbin didn’t mind.

---

It started with an accident.

Changbin had been avoiding his father—a common occurrence—and the library had seemed like a safe place to hide. No one would expect him to be here. No one but Chan, apparently, because he found him anyway.

"So now you hide in libraries?" Chan had said, amused, leaning against a bookshelf.

"Better than another lecture about responsibility," Changbin muttered, flipping through an old poetry book.

Chan had raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t take you for a poetry type."

Changbin scoffed. "And you think I’m what? A battle strategies and politics type?"

"I think you’re a why do I have to do this, I’d rather be anywhere else type," Chan teased.

Changbin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Chan had watched him for a moment, then reached for a book of his own.

And that’s when Changbin noticed.

The title was old, the binding slightly worn. A collection of royal poetry from past scholars.

Changbin narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You read poetry?"

Chan glanced at him. "So?"

Changbin sat up straighter. "Since when?"

Chan shrugged, flipping through the pages. "Since forever. My grandfather used to read to me when I was little. I started writing my own when I was older."

Changbin blinked. That was unexpected.

And also—very, very interesting.

"You write poetry," Changbin repeated, trying not to sound too eager.

Chan smirked. "Don’t sound so surprised. I can do more than just swing a sword, Your Highness."

Changbin ignored the teasing tone, his mind already racing. "I write too."

Chan stilled. "What?"

Changbin cleared his throat. "Poems. I write them. Have since I was a kid."

Chan stared at him for a second longer than necessary. "Huh."

"Huh?" Changbin frowned. "That’s all you have to say?"

Chan’s lips curled into something almost like a smile. "No. It’s just… I didn’t think we had anything in common."

Changbin scoffed. "Neither did I."

And just like that, they had an excuse.

An excuse to spend more time together.
An excuse to see each other outside of training.
An excuse to let the lines blur just a little more.

Because after that night, they started sharing.

Quietly. Carefully.

Changbin would leave a small scrap of paper on the training rack—a half-written poem, unfinished.

Chan would return it the next day, a new line added in handwriting that was too neat for someone who spent most of his time wielding a sword.

Some nights, they would just sit together, trading verses under the moonlight, pretending that this wasn’t something more.

Pretending that they weren’t growing soft for each other.

Pretending that this wasn’t dangerous.

Because it was.

They both knew it.

And yet—neither of them stopped.

---

One evening, long after the rest of the palace had fallen silent, Changbin sat in his room, staring at the small slip of parchment in his hands.

Chan’s handwriting was sharp, precise, yet there was something almost hesitant about the words.

"The wind carries your name on sleepless nights—
like a promise too quiet to be heard."

Changbin swallowed.

His heart did something stupid.

He didn’t know why, but he read it again.

And again.

And again.

His fingers tightened around the paper.

This—this was getting dangerous.

He needed to stop.

Needed to put distance between them before it was too late.

Before this turned into something real.

Before it became something he couldn’t walk away from.

But instead of pushing Chan away, instead of ignoring the note and pretending it didn’t make something in his chest ache—

Changbin picked up his pen.

And wrote back.

"A promise is still a promise, even when whispered.
Even when lost to the wind.
Even when no one dares to listen."

The next morning, he placed it on Chan’s sword.

And waited.

The next morning, Changbin wasn’t thinking about it.

Absolutely not.

Not when he woke up.
Not when he dressed.
Not when he went to training and absolutely, definitely wasn’t glancing at Chan every few minutes, waiting for a reaction.

He had left the note. That was all.
It wasn’t a big deal.
It wasn’t anything.

And yet, his pulse wouldn’t settle.

Chan arrived at the training grounds at the same time as always, his usual sharp focus in place. If he had found the note, he didn’t show it.

Changbin scowled. Infuriating.

They went through drills as usual—sword strikes, dodges, parries. But Changbin was distracted. Every time Chan’s hand brushed his, every time their eyes met for just a second too long, he found himself wondering—

Had he read it?
Was he going to say something?
Was this going to be the moment that everything changed?

And then, in the middle of their sparring match, Chan smirked.

A small, almost imperceptible thing.

But Changbin saw it.

And that’s when he knew.

He read it.

---

After training, Changbin stayed behind longer than usual, stretching, pretending he wasn’t waiting for something.

Chan was cleaning his sword, taking his time, until the training grounds were nearly empty. Only then did he glance over, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Your stance was off today," he said casually. "Too much hesitation."

Changbin scoffed. "Or maybe you were just too arrogant to notice I was holding back."

Chan smirked. "Sure, Your Highness."

Changbin’s fingers twitched. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," Chan said, finally looking at him, finally giving him that knowing glance that made something in Changbin’s stomach twist, "you keep coming back."

Changbin’s breath caught in his throat.

Because there it was.

The acknowledgment. The shift. The thing they had both been pretending not to notice.

And then—

Chan pulled something from his pocket. A small scrap of paper, neatly folded.

Changbin’s note.

Chan held it between his fingers, tilting his head. "A promise is still a promise, huh?"

Changbin swallowed. "Didn’t think you’d actually reply."

Chan raised an eyebrow. "I haven’t yet."

Changbin narrowed his eyes. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Chan stepped closer, just slightly, just enough that Changbin had to tilt his head to keep looking at him.

And then, without breaking eye contact, Chan tucked the note into his pocket.

A slow smirk curved his lips. "Guess you’ll have to wait and see."

And then he walked away, leaving Changbin standing there—pulse racing, fingers tingling, chest burning with something too big, too dangerous, too real.

Something he wasn’t ready to name.