“Our dear Grand Duke sure works late these days.”

Felix didn’t even bother sitting up straight when he greeted him. Kyle, having just removed his officer’s cap, cast a glance his way and walked past him. A faint night breeze drifted in through the open window, cooling the heat that had lingered all day. Once Kyle had taken his seat, Felix ran a hand through his messy hair and got straight to the point.

“The Arthus. Heard someone paid their insurance premium.”

Kyle’s gaze turned cold.

“What are you talking about?”

His reply was short, sharp. The chill in his eyes didn’t leave Felix’s face. The unspoken accusation hung heavy in the air until Felix frowned and retorted,

“Not me, d*mn it. That idiot, Rhaion.”

Felix set his whiskey glass down with a disgruntled click, his lips twisting into a pout. Only then did Kyle finally look away.

As usual, his expression remained unreadable. Tilting his head slightly, Kyle turned his attention toward the open window.

“Keep an eye on him.”

It was probably another one of Rhaion’s pointless displays, but still—if there was any chance he was plotting something more, it was worth watching. The broad shadow of the zelkova tree outside rippled across Kyle’s face, and for a fleeting moment, it looked as though dark waves were rising in his eyes.

Felix nodded lazily, answering with a faint chuckle. Then, still lounging, he lifted the whiskey bottle and gave it a little shake.

“Drink?”

Kyle shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples as if exhausted.

“God, you’re no fun.”

Felix emptied his glass and tilted his head, studying his cousin. The man didn’t drink, didn’t smoke.

Even a monk would live wilder than this.

Irritation crept into Felix’s brow as he heaved a sigh and got to his feet. His gaze landed on the cabinet across the room—glass doors gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

He walked over, eyeing the collection behind the glass with mocking amusement.

“Figures. All the expensive stuff, just for show.”

He snorted. Milton’s collection, no doubt. Something to impress guests with.

Felix swung the glass door open and peered inside. His eyes caught on a bottle with a painted orange on the label—just as another hand suddenly reached out and took it.

“If you need something, take it,” Kyle said flatly, tucking the bottle under his arm as he turned back toward the desk.

Felix’s gaze followed him, sharp and teasing.

“I wanted that one.”

He pointed at the orange wine, his tone dripping with mischief, as if he already knew the story behind it.

Kyle met his look in silence for a moment before glancing away again. He clearly didn’t intend to answer.

Felix, however, was never one to let things go.

“Don’t tell me it’s from someone special?”

He grinned, winking. The teasing spark in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Yeah,” Kyle replied simply.

“…What?”

Felix blinked. He hadn’t expected him to admit it. Kyle’s slow nod followed.

It took the fun right out of the joke. Felix’s face twisted into disbelief. He’d wanted to see it with his own eyes, but now that he had, it was downright revolting. His stoic cousin—in love.

“Then pick another bottle,” Kyle said calmly.

Felix stared for a beat, dumbfounded, before laughing dryly. There was no use teasing a man that unflappable. He shrugged and turned back to the cabinet.

“Well, I’ll at least grab something worth the trouble.”

His eyes scanned the shelves with unusual seriousness.

The orange wine—Lemming’s vintage—was rare, sure, but nothing compared to the old Milton bottles lined up beside it. Aged for decades, worth thousands of lars each. But what did that matter to a man blinded by love?

Felix couldn’t help but chuckle.

“This one’ll do.”

He plucked the most expensive Pomodo whiskey from the shelf, grinning slyly as he cradled it against his chest. The chandelier light glinted off the array of crystal bottles behind him.

“Suit yourself,” Kyle said, his voice dry as ever.

His gaze drifted back to the orange-painted label on the desk. An orange wine, through and through.

And yet the fruit he thought of wasn’t orange—it was peach.

The breeze carried the scent of summer roses, but somehow, he could almost smell peaches in the air.

Ever since returning from Lemming, Kyle found himself recalling peaches more often than he cared to admit. Probably just because it was the season, he told himself. Nothing more.

He gave a small shake of his head.

***

Rhaion stood motionless, eyes cold as he looked at Lieutenant Lennon Bayreld. One hand was tucked into his pocket, the other holding an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“Not a single scratch,” he murmured.

His words dripped with disdain. Lennon had just returned from a mission in Troania, their allied nation—half a year away, and back in one piece. Rhaion’s smirk deepened, venom curling in his tone.

“Coming back alive every d*mn time… kind of rude, don’t you think?”

He flicked his lighter, the flame flaring briefly as he lit the cigarette. Smoke coiled up, drifting into Lennon’s face.

Ever since learning about Lennon’s feelings for Maude, Rhaion had treated him with undisguised hostility. To Rhaion, Lennon was a rival who should’ve sunk with his plane long ago.

“You and that other b*stard,” Rhaion muttered, exhaling smoke through his teeth.

“Both insufferable.”

That calm, straight-backed composure Lennon always carried—it felt like mockery.

Rhaion gave a low, mirthless laugh and turned away, heading for his desk.

“Well, at least I won’t have to watch you and Maude cozy up anymore. I still hate your face, though.”

For the first time, Lennon’s gray eyes wavered. He could endure insults to himself—but dragging her into it? That was another matter.

He clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles blanched. Every fiber of him screamed to grab Rhaion by the collar and smash his smug face into the floor.

“Get out,” Rhaion said, a smirk twisting his lips. “And next time, don’t come back alive, Lieutenant Bayreld.”

Lennon saluted crisply, then turned on his heel and left the office.

Once the door shut behind him, he stopped and exhaled shakily. His clenched hand trembled.

“B*stard,” he muttered under his breath.

His eyes, cold and cutting, held m*rder in them. If he ever got the chance to kill Rhaion, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate. 

He pushed through the rear doors of headquarters. The wind met him there—smelling of salt and trees, carrying the distant murmur of the river.

Removing his cap, Lennon drew a deep breath, slow and steady. He closed his eyes.

The rustle of willow leaves. The gentle breeze on his cheek. And Maude’s smile—soft, golden in the sunlight. The way his own face burned red whenever she looked at him.

He’d replayed that summer in his mind countless times.

A love too timid to speak, too cowardly to act. A weary ache that festered quietly inside him.

Rhaion knew that weakness too well. Maybe that’s why he wished for Lennon’s death every day.

But then again—Lennon wished for Rhaion’s death, too.

Maybe if they both disappeared… it wouldn’t be so bad.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and hollow.

The sunlight broke through the clouds, scattering across his face. He squinted against it, then tilted his head back and gazed up into the boundless summer sky.

A smile—tinged with sorrow—flickered across his lips.