Criston Cole sat on the edge of the bed, sword laid across his lap like a relic. His hands moved in rhythm, oiling the blade as though it might absolve him of all the things he would not say aloud. The room was quiet, save for the soft breathing of the Cargyll twins, the faintest snore from Ser Steffon, and the rhythmic rustling of little Daisy shifting in her sleep nearby.

But he heard only you.

The slight shift of your weight behind him. The creak of the mattress as you leaned against the headboard, one leg bent, your arm thrown over a fur that did little to soften the cold of this place. You smelled like chamomile and old parchment. Like a garden in a library. Always that contradiction.

He did not deserve it.

He never deserved you.

And yet—he had you. As if the gods had mistaken him for a good man.

You were watching him. He could feel it, that uncanny stillness of yours. Observing, quiet and strange as a cat who knew something about the house that no one else did. You always watched him like that, as if trying to decide whether he was man or myth. And he—he played the myth. The dutiful knight. The god-fearing, vow-keeping creature carved from discipline and denial.

But not with you.

Never with you.

“You don’t have to polish it every night, you know,” you said mildly, plucking a crumb from your sleeve.

Your voice—so offhand, so free—always startled him. Not in fear. In ache.

He looked back over his shoulder, the blade still in his hand.

“I do,” he said simply. “It rusts if I don't.”

You gave a soft hm and rolled onto your side. One arm slid beneath your cheek, your hair curling around your fingers like ivy over a statue. Cream and brown silks clung awkwardly to your frame—expensive, unfitted, always a little too much—and he loved it. You dressed like you were pretending to belong, and somehow that made you more real than anyone in this gods-cursed court.

Criston swallowed. Slowly sheathed the blade.

He turned to look at Maldon, curled up at the foot of the bed, thumb tucked against his lips. Three years old and already stubborn. Already clever. So much like you, it hurt.

“He kicked me three times last night,” you murmured. “Twice in the ribs, once in the ear. Like sleeping with a very soft mule.”

Criston huffed a laugh, low in his throat. His smile didn’t last. It never did.

You shifted again, stretching your arm out toward him.

He hesitated.

Then reached for you with both hands—like a man drowning, not reaching for rescue, but for the person he would die beside.

His fingers brushed your wrist. Cold. Soft. Real.

“Come here,” you said, voice light as a leaf, and he did.

Always, he did.

He laid beside you carefully, not wanting to jostle the baby beside the pillows. You pulled the furs up over both of you, though your legs were already tangled together. Your hand went to his chest, casual as sin.

He closed his eyes.

And yet—even now, even after two children, even with your bare feet brushing against his calves under the covers—he ached to be closer. He could still feel the distance between you in millimeters. In heartbeats.

“You look like you’re about to confess something,” you whispered, eyes tracing his face.

He opened his eyes and met your gaze.

“I am,” he said quietly. “Every time I look at you.”

Your eyes searched his face, but not deeply. As though you were always floating a few inches above concern, above obligation. You were not cruel. You just didn’t need him the way he needed you. And that, more than anything, made him desperate to deserve you.

He leaned forward. Kissed your brow. Then your temple. Then your mouth—soft, dry, tasting faintly of tea and something sweet. You let him.

You always let him.

And he hated how much he loved that.

“I think the gods gave me you to test me,” he said softly, brushing your curls from your cheek.