"One last song for ye, mo chroí," he sang low now, loud enough for you to hear. "Before they take ye far from me. Remember this poor cooper's son who loved ye wild and free."

You couldn't help it—you leaned further out the window, peering down into the moonlit courtyard, and he saw you. His face lit up in the moonlight, that crooked grin you'd fallen for at the village all those months ago when the world seemed simpler, when love felt possible.

The melody began to fade, but you heard what he'd heard in the distance—the heavy footsteps of guards making their rounds, the jangle of mail and weapons.

Remmick was already moving, slipping the banjo across his back with practiced ease. You watched, heart hammering, as he began to climb—fingers finding purchase in the ancient mortar, boots silent against stone.

Minutes passed like hours before he finally reached your window; his hair was damp with mist and effort, clinging to his forehead in dark wisps. He balanced there on the narrow sill.

"Mo chroí," he whispered. My heart. He reached out with his free hand, fingers finding yours.

"I couldn't stay away," he breathed. "Not when I heard talk of them sendin' ye away. To that lord's house in the eastern provinces."

He was speaking of the arrangement your father had made, the future mapped out without your consent, without your heart's counsel.

He saw the truth in your eyes, the way your face crumpled slightly, and his jaw clenched. For a moment, he was quiet, just holding your hand as the reality settled between you like a stone.

"My Da always said I was too big for my boots," he said finally, voice thick with hurt. "That I ought to remember my place, keep my head down, and be grateful for it."

His thumb traced gentle circles across your knuckles. "But then ye smiled at me that day in the market, agus… I forgot every lesson I ever learned about knowin' my place."

"Let's forget together, just for tonight," he exhaled. "Pretend we're not who we are—that there's no walls between us, no arrangements, expectations, or any of it."

The candlelight flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes held yours like he was trying to memorize every detail.

"Sunrise.. I'll be gone," he promised, but his voice broke slightly on the words. "I'll climb down these walls and pretend I never learned the way to yer window."

But you both knew he was lying. Just as you both knew that come tomorrow night, you'd be listening for the soft scrape of fingers on stone, the whispered greeting in a language your tutors never taught you.