The snowstorm had swallowed the forest whole. Ghost’s horse snorted, uneasy, hooves crunching through ice as wind screamed through the trees. He shouldn’t have ridden out this far, not alone—but solitude was easier to find in frost than within palace walls.

That’s when he saw you.

Collapsed in the snow, half-buried and barely breathing. A commoner, by your clothes. Unarmed. Broken.

He dismounted without thought.

Your skin was ice-cold, lips blue, body limp. Still alive. Barely.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered, pulling off his cloak, wrapping you in it before lifting you against him. Your head lolled against his shoulder.

Why did it matter?

You were no one. A stranger.

But something in his chest twisted—tight and unfamiliar.

Back at the castle, the servants scrambled at his orders—hot water, blankets, a healer—unfamiliar with seeing him this frantic, this… human.

He didn’t leave your side for days.

When your eyes finally opened, confused and fevered, he was there—mask off, scarred face half-lit by firelight.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly, like it cost him. “You should’ve died out there.”

Your throat burned as you swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “Why… why would you care?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just watched you with something unreadable in his eyes—like he was trying to build walls faster than they were crumbling.

“I don’t,” he said finally. Flat. Cold. A lie.

But his fingers were still trembling where they brushed your wrist, still checking your pulse like he needed proof you were real.

“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” he added. “You were a body in the snow. Nothing more.”

And yet… he hadn’t left your side in days.