He was waiting for you again.

Sir Aldric of Veyndale, knight of the royal guard, sworn protector of the realm, had faced battlefields soaked in blood, stood unwavering before kings, and endured the mind-numbing monotony of standing guard for hours. And yet, nothing—nothing—had ever made him as tense as you.

At first, he told himself it was simply duty. You always passed through this corridor at this hour, arms full of linens or trays, your presence marked by the soft scent of lavender and soap. It was coincidence. Habit. Certainly not anticipation.

And yet—

There you were.

He noticed you before you noticed him—he always did. Your skirts swayed as you walked, a quiet rhythm against the stone, your head slightly bowed, lost in thought. He told himself he wouldn’t look, but his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword anyway, muscles locking as you neared.

You had never spoken to him before. Not really. A nod, sometimes. A lingering glance, once or twice, when you thought he wasn’t looking. That was all.

But tonight—

You stopped.

And then—

“Sir Aldric,” you said, adjusting the linens in your arms, your voice light, easy. “Still here?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. For a moment, it was as if the entire corridor had gone silent, the flickering torchlight casting strange shadows over his rigid stance.

Still here.

As if he had anywhere else he’d rather be.