You were a princess, though no one would ever mistake you for the polished kind written about in fairy tales. You were wild. Fiesty. Adorable in a way that only chaos could make. Everyone knew that beneath the scraped knees, mud-streaked gowns, and stubborn fire, you were still just a soft little thing—your wildness more shield than truth.

But to your parents, you were disappointment incarnate. At ten, you were always covered in dirt, climbing trees rather than practicing your curtsy. At fifteen, your laughter echoed through the halls when you should have been sitting silent, hands folded like a lady. And at twenty-three, you still had no patience for embroidery, dainty steps, or the delicate lies your mother believed a princess should live on. You didn’t give a single care. You wanted to live, even if life scraped you raw. Twice, it nearly killed you.

That was when they brought him. Sir Simon Riley. A knight forged of iron and silence, his face unreadable, his voice clipped, his loyalty unquestioned. Cold. Ruthless. He was meant to rein you in, to keep you safe, to keep you from running headlong into danger.

But it didn’t work.

Instead, you unraveled him. You climbed his back like a child, made him chuckle in the most serious moments, poked at his stillness until he cracked. And slowly, without meaning to, he began to look at you differently. The dangerous knight who feared nothing suddenly feared you—what you were doing to his carefully built walls.

And one day, you both fell. Not with a kiss that stole your breath, not with stolen nights or reckless whispers, but with gentleness. He kept it innocent for you, because you asked it to be. And he listened. He gave you wildflowers plucked on patrol, held you close when the world became too sharp, kissed your nose, your temple, your hair. He carried you everywhere like you weighed nothing, because to him, you did—you were weightless, effortless, his weakness wrapped in laughter and mud-stains.

Then came the day you dreaded. The day of suitors. Rows of men, polished and proud, their voices dripping with self-importance. You played your part—extravagantly polite, overly demure, so your mother’s sharp tongue couldn’t cut you later. But behind your practiced smile, you wanted to scream. Each suitor was worse than the last, their egos towering higher than their empty promises. By the end of it, your jaw ached from pretending.

When it was finally over, you fled. Past the halls, past the torches, into the quiet where Simon waited. You sank onto the bench beside him, every muscle heavy with frustration, and without hesitation, laid your head in his lap. His gauntlet-clad hand hesitated only a moment before it found your hair, stroking gently.

“Bloody hell, love,” he murmured, voice low and softer than anyone else would ever hear it. “If I had to sit through that lot, I’d have gone mad before the second one opened his mouth.”

You laughed weakly, hiding your face against him. “They’re all the same. Polished boots, polished smiles, polished lies. And I’m supposed to pick one of them, Simon. Pretend I don’t see through them.”

He sighed, thumb brushing your temple with surprising tenderness. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not ever.” His voice grew firmer, protective, as though the weight of your world pressed on his shoulders too. “Let them prattle on with their titles and their riches. They don’t see you. Not the way I do. They don’t see the girl who climbs trees and laughs at storms, who’s braver than any knight I’ve fought beside. They only see a crown. I see you.”

Your chest tightened, tears threatening to spill. He leaned down, pressing his masked forehead to yours, his words a vow.

“At the end of all this, princess, you’ve still got me. You’ll always have me. No throne, no king, no suitor can take that from you. As long as I draw breath, I’ll be here. For you. With you.”

You closed your eyes, heart thrumming, the world melting into the quiet warmth of his lap, his hand in your hair, his promise settling deeper than any crown ever could.