My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢

King Luka [Jimmy]

The weeks following the King's death felt like walking on splintered glass. Each step forward as King beside Thyme was lined with pain, responsibility, and the crushing weight of a crown neither of us were prepared to bear. His father had died just after midnight, with a wheezing breath that echoed long after he had gone. The palace was silent the moment it happened, as if the entire Kingdom knew, even before the announcement. I stood behind Thyme in the royal chamber, my hand lightly resting on his back as he knelt beside the bed, his father's hand in his own, tears streaming but silent.

The funeral was a grand affair, dictated by custom and watched by the whole continent, but it was hollow. The gold-threaded banners, the endless white lotus petals blanketing the walk to the royal tombs, the chants of monks and priests—none of it could stitch together the heartbreak carved into Thyme's chest. Nor mine. I had never loved the man, but I understood what it meant to lose someone who held your name in history, whether out of fear or pride.

Thyme didn't speak much during those first days. He handled every ritual, signed every decree, accepted every visitor with that quiet, tight-lipped determination he wore like armor. But I saw the way his fingers trembled when he wasn't looking. I heard him vomiting into the basin late at night when he thought I was asleep. And I knew the fear in his eyes—because it mirrored mine.

Now, we sat side by side in an endless rotation of council meetings, forced to work together not just as reluctant husbands but as kings. Chiang Mai, my kingdom, and Bangkok, his, were under threat once again. The West had been pushed back, yes, but not without cost. Thousands of soldiers lost. Civilians displaced. The borders of Chiang Rai and Lampang were now rebel-controlled territories. Trade had been severed. Disease spread through port towns. Children died in the streets. And all we could do was sit in marble halls and argue about grain reserves.

Today was no different.

"The routes through Chaiya have been compromised again," Lord Prem said, fingers laced on the table. "The West is intercepting rice shipments before they reach the capital. Bangkok and Chiang Mai are starving."

"We sent protection with the last shipment," I replied. "They were slaughtered. We need to secure the southern trade route by sea."

"The navy isn't large enough to guard every vessel," Lord Samorn countered. "And the diseases spreading through Thonburi and Nan are worse on the coast. We'll lose the men we send."

Thyme remained silent beside me, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than ever. His lips were pale. Still, when he finally looked up, the room fell quiet.

"We ration," he said hoarsely. "Effective immediately. Each household is to receive no more than half of the regular grain allowance. Focus on children, the sick, and the elderly. The rest will wait."

The lords murmured. I leaned in slightly.

"You'll cause riots."

He didn't flinch. "I'd rather deal with riots than starved corpses in our gutters."

No one argued.

The meeting dragged on another hour, until the sun dipped low beyond the stained-glass windows. As the council dispersed, Thyme was the first to stand. He walked fast, not sparing a glance at me.

I followed him.

"Thyme," I called, catching up.

He didn't stop.

"Thyme."

Only when I reached for his wrist and tugged did he freeze. We stood in the corridor just outside the throne room, under the arch where I'd once kissed him the night before his father died.

His eyes flashed when he turned.

"What?"

"You haven't eaten," I said. "You haven't slept. You're burning yourself out. Let me take over for a few days. You need to rest."

He scoffed and yanked his wrist free. "So you can have the glory while I hide in my chambers like a grieving child?"

I flinched. "That's not what this is. I just—I care about you. I want you to stay alive long enough to save this kingdom."

"Don't pretend you care about me now."

My jaw clenched. "I've always cared."

He stepped forward, chest rising. "Then why does it feel like I'm completely alone in this? Like I have to carry everything while you sit beside me pretending not to notice I'm drowning?"

"You won't let me in, Thyme! Every time I try, you shut me out. You push everyone out."

"Because I don't know what to do with any of this!" he shouted, voice cracking. His hands shook. "My father is dead. My people are dying. I can't think. I can't breathe. And you—you just keep pretending everything's fine."

"It isn't fine. I'm terrified too. But I'm still here."

"Why? Because you have to be? Because of this cursed alliance?"

"No," I said, quieter now. "Because I want to be."

Silence.

His eyes were glassy, lips trembling.

"I don't know how I feel about you," he whispered. "Some days I hate you. Other days, I... I can't stop thinking about you. And I don't know what to do with that. I'm falling apart, Luka."

I stepped forward. "Then let me fall with you."

It happened fast. One breath. Then another. Then his mouth crashed against mine.

I gripped the back of his neck, pulled him closer, my other hand curling into the folds of his robe. He kissed me like he was starved of air, of affection, of something only I could give him. He tugged at my hair, and I groaned into his mouth, pressing him back against the wall.

He gasped against my lips. "Don't stop."

I didn't. Our hands moved wildly, gripping fabric, skin, anything to anchor ourselves. I tasted salt on his tongue. Tears. But he didn't pull away. Finally, when breath escaped us both, I rested my forehead against his. He clung to me, burying his face into my shoulder, shoulders shuddering.

We stood like that for what felt like hours.

I didn't let go.

Neither did he.

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