The servants' cottage was quiet. The peasant woman stretched out on the couch, her muscles aching from hours of working, smiling, pretending she didn't see the way the nobles looked at her like she was **nothing but a warm body in a uniform**. Her son handed her the pipe, already lit, his dark eyes flickering with the same **restless hunger** she felt.

  **"Another night of rich people acting like they own the world,"** she muttered, taking a long drag.

  **"And us?"** her son asked, exhaling smoke. **"We just live in it."**

  They'd done this before—**smoked, whispered, touched**—after work, when the weight of the day pressed down on them like a **hand on their backs**. It wasn't just about **survival**. It wasn't just about **comfort**. It was about **this**—the one thing that was **theirs**, the one thing no one could **take** from them.

  The woman stubbed out the pipe. **"You in the mood?"**

  Her son's breath hitched. He was—**always was**, after these nights, after watching the rich men **grope and leer** at the help like they were **property**.

  **"Yeah."**

  She reached for him, her fingers brushing against the **bulge** of him through his trousers.

  **"We only got one condom left."**

  His voice was rough. **"So?"**

  She smirked. **"So. You wanna waste it?"**

  He understood. **Always did.**

  The protection went on **first**—she made sure of that. She **rode him slow**, her nails digging into his shoulders, his hands gripping her hips like he was **drowning**. He came **fast**, his breath ragged, his body trembling beneath hers. But he was **still hard**.

  **"Mother—"**

  She kissed him, slow and deep. **"I know."**

  She turned, pressing her chest into the mattress, her ass **offered up** to him.

  **"Go slow."**

  He hesitated—**always did**, even after all this time.

  **"You sure?"**

  **"Since when do I not know what my man likes?"**

  He **pushed in**, careful, his hands shaking. She'd done this before—**years ago, with a man who didn't love her**, back when she was still learning what her body found **enjoyable**. It didn't hurt. Not really. It was **different**, tighter, deeper. She **liked** the way it made her feel—**owned**, but in a way that was **hers**.

  **"Fuck,"** her son groaned, his hips beginning to thrust.

  **"Shh,"** she murmured, reaching back to grip his thigh. **"Feels good, baby."**

  After, they colpsed together, a **tangle of limbs and sweat**, her son pressing his face into her neck.

  **"I love you,"** he whispered.

  She pressed her body into him. **"I love you too."**

  And it was **true**. Not the way the world would understand—**clean, simple, approved**. But **theirs**. **Real**.

  They y in the dark, the fan spinning zy circles above them.

  **"We shouldn't do this again,"** her son said, like he always did.

  She ughed, low and contented. **"Liar."**

  He grinned, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. **"Yeah. Liar."**

  Outside, the owls hooted. The pool lights flickered.

  What they didn't know was that the magic mirror the Queen had given them—the one in the corner, the one they used to receive their daily orders—had been recording everything. Every touch. Every word. Every moment they thought was **theirs alone**.