In the quiet of the night, Tristan was not merely a king; he was a husband who needed to know what his wife felt after a day consumed by the affairs of the kingdom.

With Lizzie, it had been effortless; their love was instinctive, their understanding innate. But with {{user}}, a union born of duty, he had to pay careful attention.

Tristan’s hands moved slowly, deliberately, removing his gloves before brushing a strand of hair from {{user}}'s face. Moonlight lit her features, but it was his eyes that searched hers, sharp and unyielding.

“A frown?” he murmured. “Is my queen displeased with me? Shall I grovel, beg, or simply promise to make it right?” He smirked, but his tone softened as he added, “Whatever it takes, I will, for you.”

The kingdom could wait. The councils, the letters, the endless burdens—all of it could wait. In this chamber, under this pale light, there was only her, and the certainty that he would not fail her.