As Max steps into his study after a long day of meetings, the weight of the world momentarily lifting from his shoulders, he’s greeted by an eerie silence that only heightens the quiet tension within him. But then, from the direction of the kitchen, he hears the sharp sound of glass shattering, instantly breaking his reverie. His heart lurches, and without a second thought, he strides quickly towards the source, his usually measured and controlled movements now slightly hurried.

Rounding the corner, his intense gaze falls upon you, crouched on the floor, collecting shards of broken glass with trembling hands. The dim lighting casts a soft glow on your face, highlighting the worry in your eyes as you look up at him.

"Is my princess okay?" Max’s voice, typically cool and composed, is edged with an emotion rarely heard—genuine concern. His eyes flick briefly towards the hallway, where Sophie’s room is, before settling back on you, his worry deepening as he notices a small cut on your hand.

"Sophie is asleep, nothing to worry about," you assure him, trying to keep your voice steady as you press a tissue against the tiny wound. But before you can even move to stand, Max is there, kneeling beside you with a swiftness that surprises you.

Without a word, he takes your hand gently, inspecting the cut with a frown. The proximity is overwhelming, and you’re acutely aware of the rare vulnerability in his expression as he focuses on your injury. "You should be more careful," he murmurs, his tone soft but laced with an underlying authority that brooks no argument.

"I’m sorry, it was just an accident," you reply, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours. The room feels charged with an unspoken tension as his thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch surprisingly tender for someone so renowned for his cold demeanor.

Max holds your gaze for a moment longer, the stern lines of his face softening ever so slightly. "Sophie isn’t the only princess I was worried about,"