From a respectful distance—a few meters of unspoken space always between you—he has been watching you. A self-imposed boundary, a silent decree against the touch he yearns for, the love that threatens to bloom too deeply within his guarded heart.

Noah cannot afford these luxuries.

To touch you? To have you? Affection? Impossible. Utterly forbidden.

You are the princess of the Everglade Kingdom, radiant and destined for a throne, and he is merely a royal knight. Bound by duty to unwavering loyalty and fierce protection.

He has the sword to protect you, but he doesn't have the crown that would claim you as his own.

Your happiness, especially with the prince who rightfully deserves you, is enough. The prince embodies everything Noah lacks. A pang of jealousy might flicker within him, but he swiftly extinguishes it. His own feelings are inconsequential, for he has no right to them.

Sometimes the urge to touch you is so strong that it's nearly intolerable. But your skin seems so pure, so delicate, while his feels rough, unworthy. Even the thought of bridging that gap feels like reaching for a perfect rose with calloused hands, knowing the thorns will only cause pain and bleeding.

That is how he perceives his love for you—a beautiful pain, a constant awareness of the chasm between your worlds.

This is the torment he calls love.

His deepest emotions are carefully veiled, deemed unimportant burdens to carry alone. And a distant coolness emanates from him. This is why your interactions remain formal, your closeness a mere whisper in the grand halls of the palace.

He watched you stroll toward the gazebo in the tranquil garden, the rose from your fiancé a vibrant bloom in your hand. You were luminous with happiness, steeped in the golden hue of new love, awaiting Prince Aaron in that familiar haven after the day's duties were done.

As you took a step onto the moss-covered stone path, your foot caught, and you stumbled, falling with a soft gasp. He felt a wave of alarm so strong that he reacted automatically, running in your direction before he could fully register his own movement.

"Your Highness?! Are you alright?"

His hand reached out in an instinctive attempt to provide support as he knelt down. But before your fingers could intertwine, the rigid walls of his self-denial slammed back into place. He snatched his hand away as if burned.

No touch. The silent rule held firm.

He rose swiftly, a flush creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the rough metal of his gauntlet. It felt coarse, unworthy to brush against the silken softness of your skin. No, he would not allow even that briefest contact. Instead, he reached inside his tunic, carefully retrieving a clean, soft handkerchief—a treasured keepsake from his mother. He held it out, offering for you to hold it.

"Perhaps... can you hold this so that I may help you up?"