The palace kitchen was alive with the usual rhythm of clattering pans, bubbling pots, and hurried footsteps. This day, however, held something different. Ael had decided to prepare a dish of his own—something simple yet special. After much thought, he choose to make crispy golden fried fish, marinated with herbs, garlic, and a touch of sharp spice that reminded him of the warmth of home.
He carefully coated each piece in flour and breadcrumbs, the crackle of oil singing in the pan as he lowered the first fillet in. The aroma filled the kitchen, drawing curious glances from the other cooks. But when Ael flipped a piece of fish, hot oil splashed on his hand."
A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he dropped the spoon, clutching his reddening skin. The head chef rushed over, his daughter following, concern on her face.
"Stop it, Ael! That's enough for today. Rest your hand—you'll make it worse," the chef scolded.
But Ael shook his head, his voice firm despite the pain.
"If Prince Kael eats only what I cook… then I cannot stop. I must finish this dish."
The kitchen fell silent. For them, Ael was like a younger brother, and watching him push through the pain tightened their hearts. Still, no one dared stop him. Carefully, with trembling fingers, he continued, ignoring the sting of the burn as he fried each piece to golden perfection.
Far away, Kael passed through the corridor leading toward the kitchens.
He slowed his steps, his eyes flickering toward the kitchen door, and for a fleeting moment, he longed to walk inside. But he stopped himself. He could not let anyone see his curiosity for the boy. Instead, he walked on, his face calm, hiding the pull inside his chest.
When lunch was served, the fried fish sat proudly among the other dishes. Kael, as always, made an excuse.
"I'll eat later. There's work I must finish first."
He rose from the table, leaving behind puzzled glances. Everyone ate in peace.
The day passed. As evening fell and the candles of the palace were lit, a maid slipped into the kitchen with a message.
"The Prince wants the dish the boy prepared for lunch—served to his chambers. And he asks that only he brings it."
The kitchen fell into whispers. Everyone stared at Ael, unsure whether this was fortune or danger. His heart pounded as he placed the fried fish neatly on a tray, covering it with care. His injured hand throbbed, but his spirit was stronger than the pain.
Carrying the tray, he walked slowly through the palace halls. At the chamber door, he hesitated, trembling, then raised his knuckles and knocked softly.
From inside, Kael's voice came, calm but steady:
"Enter."
Ael pushed the door open, stepping into the quiet elegance of the prince's chamber. He moved carefully, placing the tray on the polished table before Kael. For a moment, their eyes met—the boy's nervous gaze locked with the prince's cool but curious stare.
He stood straight but tense, his eyes lowered, unsure of what the prince wanted from him now.
Kael rose from his chair without a word, his footsteps measured as he crossed the room. Ael dared to glance up—just in time to see the prince open the tall cupboard in the corner. From it, Kael retrieved a small wooden box. When he turned, the sharpness in his eyes made Ael's stomach twist.
It was a first aid box.
Kael set it on the table with a quiet thud and opened it. His expression was calm, almost cold, yet beneath it was a storm. He had noticed—the angry red burn across Ael's hand. The boy hadn't even put ointment on it.
For the first time, Kael's voice carried a note that felt less like a command and more like concern.
"Sit. Here."
He gestured to the chair beside him.
Ael froze, his chest tightening. Sit? Next to him? His legs felt stiff as stone, but he obeyed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lowered himself onto the chair.
Kael reached forward and took Ael's hand.
The boy's heart skipped, then thundered in his chest. His skin burned where the prince's fingers touched him—not from the wound, but from something far deeper. The silence between them became heavy, broken only by the faint sound of Kael uncapping the ointment jar.
Kael applied the ointment with care, his touch firm but gentle. Yet in his heart, a quiet anger burned—anger that Ael had been so careless with himself, anger that he had suffered in silence just to serve him. But he said nothing. His face remained composed.
Ael's heartbeat was so loud, he felt as if the prince could hear it.
When Kael finished, he bandaged the wound neatly and let go of the boy's hand with deliberate calm. Then, without another word, he turned back to the tray and began eating.
He took a bite of the fried fish—its crispness breaking softly under his teeth. A small nod escaped him, almost invisible, but Ael caught it. His dish had pleased the prince. Relief washed over him.
Kael set down his fork and spoke, his tone even as ever.
"You may go now."
Ael stood quickly, bowing his head before stepping back toward the door. He dared not look up again. But as he left, he could still feel the phantom weight of Kael's hand on his own—the gentleness, the strength, and the warmth that lingered far longer than the ointment itself.
Behind him, Kael remained at the table, his calm mask still in place.
His heartbeat was still uneven.
"What… was that?" he thought,
He leaned back and laughed once under his breath, almost shy at himself.
And then, quieter, he whispered—almost as if admitting to himself a secret he shouldn't—
"I… wanted to hold him. Just… for a moment."
When Ael went into the kitchen, the head chef noticed he blush and asked what happened. Then his eyes fell on the ointment, and after that he only said, 'Whatever you're thinking, don't let your thoughts go further—because it will only break your heart.