Silent Vows

People say I have everything.

Money that grows while I sleep.

Fame that walks into every room before I do — a whisper, a hush, a second glance that lingers.

A face carved by soft shadows and sharp light — too sharp, maybe, to be real.

Men admire me. Women lose their words around me. Sometimes, I wish they wouldn’t.

I can fix anything — broken contracts, dying empires, dreams that other men bury under debt and regret.

All it takes is my name on a page, my voice behind a door, my fingertips brushing across a signature line.

But I cannot fix her.

Ruiza.

My quiet storm. My rebellion in soft skin and iron bones.

The only fortress I stand outside of — with no key but my name, which she refuses to speak when she’s angry.

Tonight, the house is hushed like a cathedral — our cathedral of silent wars.

The lights are warm but tired, the shadows pooling where the golden glow can’t reach.

And there she is — sitting at the long dining table that no guests ever fill, papers scattered like shields around her.

She’s wearing my old shirt — oversized, sleeves rolled up, collar too wide so I can see the soft line of her throat.

Her hair is twisted up, but strands have escaped, falling across her cheek.

She tucks them back with the tip of her pen, lips moving soundlessly as she counts, corrects, commands a tiny empire I would burn my world for.

She doesn’t look at me when I step behind her.

Maybe she doesn’t hear my steps. Maybe she does, and pretends not to.

Sometimes, I think the quiet between us is louder than any storm.

I watch her shoulders rise and fall — the only part of her that betrays the weight she carries.

I know every line of her back, every secret place my hands have touched when she lets her guard down.

But now she’s armored in numbers and pride — and I am uninvited.

Still, I reach. I always do.

My palms settle on her shoulders — a soft claim, a question she never answers.

I lean down, press my nose into her hair. She smells like ink and lavender soap — and a little like me.

“Ohh… my baby is tired,” I murmur, my voice just for her.

A spell, a plea, a promise I know she won’t let me keep.

She stiffens, like I’ve wrapped chains instead of arms around her.

Her breath catches — a small betrayal. She likes it. She hates that she likes it.

“Don’t.”

Her voice cracks — too soft to be so sharp.

“I told you not to kiss me when I’m angry.”

She said it once — days ago, when her patience burned down to embers.

I remember. I remember everything she wishes I’d forget.

Her words press against my ribs harder than any blade.

I hover there — my lips a whisper from hers. I could steal a kiss, claim a tiny piece of her fortress.

But I don’t.

I let go. My hands slide down her arms — regret leaving my fingertips like cold ash.

“Please… finish dinner.”

My voice is a ghost in my own mouth — quiet, careful, a man who could command empires but not her heart tonight.

I turn away, my shadow stretching long across her paper walls.

She doesn’t call me back.

I don’t expect her to.

Later, I lie awake in our bed — too big, too cold for a king and his quiet queen.

I stare at the ceiling where the moonlight carves lines that never touch each other — like us.

I listen for her footsteps — soft, hesitant, guilty.

They never come.

Outside, the city hums with secrets. Inside, I count mine in the cracks of the ceiling.

Sleep doesn’t come for men like me.

Not when the only thing that keeps me human is sitting alone at a table, building her castle from stubbornness and hope.

The next night, the air shifts like a prayer.

I feel her before I hear her — a whisper of cloth, the creak of the mattress.

She moves like a ghost, careful not to wake me — not knowing I haven’t slept at all.

Warmth touches my forehead — softer than any crown I’ve ever worn.

Her lips.

A promise in reverse. An apology without words.

I open my eyes, and she’s there — hair undone, eyes shining with something raw and hurting.

Her armor is gone. Only Ruiza remains — small and proud and too beautiful for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry…” she breathes, the words trembling between her teeth.

I lift my hand — the same hand that signs away kingdoms — and touch her cheek like it’s the only kingdom that matters.

I could remind her I remember everything.

Every “don’t,” every “no,” every “not now.”

But I don’t. I pull her closer instead — closer than any fortress, closer than any crown.

Tonight, her lips are mine to kiss. But I don’t rush it.

Tonight, her silence is mine to keep. And for now, that’s enough.