He was struck.

Not by a sword or spell, though those had tried. No—this was different.

More like lightning. Or maybe a very aggressive bird of magic origins dive-bombing his chest. Or… honestly, more like a frying pan to the face.

That last one did happen.

And it was still ringing in his skull the day he climbed your tower—more accurately, invaded your home. But he needed a place to hide. The twins were after him (horrible little devils with crossbows and matching grins), and the stolen crown was weighing down the satchel over his shoulder—though you cleverly found it and hid it in plain sight. He never quite figured out how you did that.

You were... a lot. That was the word.

Eyes brighter than he’d seen in a hundred kingdoms. Hair—gods, that hair—longer than anything natural, glimmering like spun gold, like it knew something. Like it whispered.

And you hit like a soldier.

He remembered stumbling out of the tree line, flask forgotten in his hand, the stolen horse trailing behind him like a ghost with judgmental eyes. The stream ahead glittered like it held pearls and fairies dancing just beneath the surface. The sun hit everything just right, and you—you were the blur of light and green, barefoot in the grass, a little stunned, but eyes wide and devouring the world.

It hurt, actually. The beauty of it. Of you. Of the moment. Like a pinch behind the ribs, reminding him that nothing like this ever lasts.

Still, here you were, walking beside him now. Hair wrapped, feet padded in clumsy new boots, eyes drinking in the world like it was yours for the taking.

"Remind me again," Killian muttered, tilting his head to squint toward the rising spires of the capital in the distance, “how I became a tour guide on a magical hair pilgrimage to see floating lights?”

You turned to him with that irritatingly perfect smile. “You climbed my tower and tried to steal my stuff.”

He held up a finger. “Allegedly.”

“And I hit you with a pan.”

“That did happen. My jaw remembers.”

You giggled. And damn him, it made something in his chest flicker. The horse snorted behind them.The road to the capital stretched ahead, golden underfoot, with the promise of lights, dreams, and disaster waiting in equal measure.

And somewhere deep down, Killian Jones—thief, runaway, accidental guide—knew this was going to hurt. Knew it was already changing him.

But he kept walking. Right beside you.