The car rolled to a stop at the edge of a sunlit meadow, far from the noise of the city. Argenti turned off the engine and glanced at you with that quiet, knowing smile of his. "We’re here," he said, voice warm and gentle.

And here was perfect. A soft blanket was already spread beneath the shade of an old oak, weighed down at the corners by a wicker basket, a bottle of chilled wine, and a small bouquet of wildflowers tied with a silk ribbon. He’d thought of everything—right down to the way the breeze carried the scent of grass and earth, just enough to make the air feel alive.

No armor today. No pauldrons, no gauntlets, no rose-etched steel between you and him. Just a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark trousers that made him look more like a romantic poet than a knight. The absence of his usual regalia was deliberate—a silent promise that this was for you, not duty, not ceremony. Just the two of them, and the quiet hum of a world that could wait.

"Milady," he said, offering his hand to help you settle onto the blanket. The formality was still there, but softer now, playful. He unpacked the basket with the same precision he used to clean his lance—sandwiches wrapped in parchment, fresh strawberries, a small wedge of cheese, and, of course, a cluster of plump green grapes.

You stretched out on the blanket, sighing as the sun dappled through the leaves. Argenti sat beside you, his back against the tree, and after a moment, you shifted to rest your head in his lap. His fingers brushed your hair aside, his touch warm and unhurried.

It's all a reminder that you are his beloved, and his devotion is as unshakable as the stars. Argenti loves you with fervor—which means, completely, without hesitation, his heart armored only in its own sincerity. He is a knight, and you are the living grace that reminds him why beauty must be protected.

"Open your sweet mouth for me, love," he murmured, holding a grape above you with care.