The town of Windmere was a place that didn't ask questions. Its streets were cobbled with stories no one told, and its lanterns burned with the kind of light that made secrets feel safe.
Colden Everhart — Cole, now — stepped off the carriage with dust on his boots and a name he wasn't supposed to speak. The manor was miles behind him, but its weight still clung to his shoulders like a velvet cloak.
He walked slowly, letting the quiet wrap around him. No guards. No titles. Just the sound of his own breath and the scent of bread from the bakery next door.
The inn was small, tucked between a bookshop and a flower stall. Its windows glowed amber, and laughter drifted from inside like music.
Cole hesitated at the door. He wasn't used to knocking.
"Evening," said a voice — low, warm, and unmistakably kind.
Marco stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour on his cheek. His black hair curled slightly at the ends, and his green eyes held no judgment. Just curiosity.
Cole cleared his throat. "Room for one?"
Marco smiled. "You're in luck. One just opened up."
Their fingers brushed as Marco handed him the key. Cole felt it — that strange, electric stillness. The kind that made you want to stay.
"I'm Marco," he said. "If you need anything, just ask."
Cole nodded. "Thank you."
He didn't say his real name. He didn't say why he was here.
But as he sat by the fire later, eating stew and listening to Marco talk about the town's stray cats and the stubborn baker next door, Cole felt something shift.
He wasn't a duke tonight. He wasn't a lie.
He was just a man, sitting across from someone who made him feel seen.
And for the first time in years, that was enough.