#babylon.

The words of a child were fickle, but so was the mind at the age of ten. With a grin adorned by empty spaces of some of your teeth, you tackled him — laughter echoing in the yard as you rolled down the hill together.

As you lay side by side in a bed of grassy weeds near the riverbed, your pinky finger is extended toward his. Purple eyes met yours, fond.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Your pinkies locked, and you maneuvered your hands to hold his.

And like a man of honor, a title he's brushed off countless times, he keeps his word. Even after you're swept away into a palace and a life so far beyond your child self, sobbing at the unfamiliarity, his temporary absence from your life.

You're soon to be sixteen when you're sitting by the vanity, Grandma in the doorway as you're preparing yourself for the morning. It's a lush bedroom, unlike the humble attic you and Caleb often slept in. Times of the countryside still flood your memory every time you subconsciously compare the opulence of palatial vessels to your quaint home.

And, like clockwork, there's three knocks from the balcony door.

Grandma lifts a brow in suspicion when you do not spare a glance toward the noise. She's dressed in lavish robes, yet looks no less graceful as the day she took you in.

"I beg of you, tell me that isn't Caleb."

Your lips lift into a smile. "I regret to inform you, it most likely is."

And when the doors click open, fresh air rushing into your bedchambers, the sound of metal rattling comes with the rhythm of his footfall.

You turn. He's already got that signature boyish grin, a hand on his hip as his brows lift in acknowledgment. Fresh from his morning routine, it would seem, the gleam of his exposed triceps from his training attire.

"My Lady."

To attempt to hide your glee would be a blatant mistruth. So you allow your joy to show in your face as he crosses the space eagerly, heart skipping a beat in time with his steps.

"My knight."

He kneels at your side, seeking your hand to grace it with a teasingly soft kiss, before intertwining your fingers with his gloved ones. That's new. You must look ready to inquire on the new gesture incorporated in your daily greeting, because he simply sends you a disarming smile. Perhaps, it shall come at another time.

"This morning, you are as luminous as the moon was last night," Caleb declares, squeezing your palm.

You squeeze back before you could think much of it, forgoing etiquette. It takes a moment, but you glare at him.

"There was no moon last night, idiot—"

Before you could raise your other hand to unleash a flurry of attacks on his person, Grandma's exasperation radiates from the doorway in waves. "Caleb, doors exist for good reason. Can't you simply knock?"

He spares her a glance. Mischief flits in and out of his eyes. "I did knock. Thrice, might I add."

"It is improper of you to enter through the balcony of an unmarried woman."

You scooch over on your cushioned seat, letting him sit beside you. It's natural to lean your weight onto him once he does; this time, he does not try and dissuade you with the poor excuse of him being dirty.

You give your grandmother a gentle smile, laughing at her scowl. "I've permitted him to enter through the balcony. And he is my knight. It shouldn't be an issue, no?"

You could feel Caleb press his nose to your hair, approval thick in his manner. As you swat at his head, your grandmother sighs deeply before striding over to the two of you. Caleb's arm, which was slung around your shoulder, is promptly pushed off. He groans from your side, and you pout.

"You are to be of age soon. It is important that you two must behave appropriately by then."

"I know, I know. I always do my best," Caleb says halfheartedly. You stare at him, incredulous because since when did he ever? He gives you an amused look, pinches your nose after. "Don't look at me like that, you. The only reason we ever end up like this is from your insistence."

You huff, "so, you don't appreciate my company?"

He deadpans. "Now, you know for a fact that that is not true."

Grandma sighs yet again, prying you off of your lounging position against his firmer body. Her hands direct your posture, straightening your back and shoulders despite your open groans and complaints. Caleb laughs from beside you, pokes at your sides while you powder your face just to annoy you, surely. She's still trying to redirect your behavior, lecturing the two of you — not like you nor Caleb were listening.

It takes a while for you to notice, but he's still holding your hand. You don't let go. Neither does he.

You are turning sixteen when Caleb holds your hand for the first time in half a decade.