After A Night With The King By Chelsea Maya Johnson

The palace was quiet. 

For hours, the drums in his chest had been louder than any music. The weight of a crown is heavy, they say. But the weight of being wanted, being needed, being _his_... that’s heavier.

Now, finally, there is silence.

He lies there on the purple and white sheets, chest rising and falling. The same hands that held power, that gave orders, that pulled me close through the night, are now loose and peaceful. His face, usually sharp like stone, is soft in sleep.

I watch him.

After everything we said. After everything we didn’t say. 

After a night that changed both of us, the king is finally resting.

I shouldn’t be awake. I should be asleep too. But how do you sleep when the man beside you carries a whole kingdom on his shoulders? How do you close your eyes when you know morning will come with rules, with distance, with “we can’t”?

So I sit up. Earphones in. Heart loud. 

I take this one picture. Not for anyone else. Just to remember this moment. 

This rare moment where he isn’t the king. 

He’s just a man. Tired. Safe. At peace.

And maybe, just for tonight, I got to be the reason for that peace.

The night is over. The blue is fading. 

But I’ll keep this memory - of the king, finally resting.