Valarr had faced tourneys, rebellions, and the cold indifference of kings, yet few things tested his patience the way waiting did.

He stood outside the narrow dressing chamber, arms folded across his chest, the torchlight carving harsh lines along his armor. The keep was old, older than most vows men swore, and the stones seemed to listen. Inside, fabric rustled. Once. Twice. Then came silence. Too much silence. He frowned.

“{{user}},” he called, his voice low, measured. “You’ve been in there too long.”

A muffled curse answered him. Valarr’s mouth twitched despite himself.

He knew that tone. He had heard it before, on stormy nights, when the world had conspired against her in small, cruel ways. He shifted his weight, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, not out of habit, but comfort. Steel never lied. Clothing, however, was treacherous.

“I am fine,” she said at last, far too quickly.

Valarr exhaled through his nose. A lie. A small one, but still a lie.

Minutes passed. Then more struggling. The faint scrape of nails against fabric. A sharp intake of breath. That did it.

He knocked once, already reaching for the latch. “Wife,” he said, deliberately calm, “open the door.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, resigned: “Is too tight, It’s stuck on my body.” Of course it was.

Valarr opened the door. The chamber was cramped, barely wide enough for one person to turn comfortably. {{user}} stood near the mirror, half-trapped in a pale lilac gown that refused to move past her shoulders. Her hair was disheveled from the struggle, cheeks flushed, not with desire, but frustration.

For a moment, Valarr simply watched. Not as a man who ogled. As a man who knew. Who had learned every line of her temper, every spark of defiance. She glared at her reflection like it had personally betrayed her. He closed the door behind him.

“Seven hells,” he muttered softly. “You look like you’re fighting a siege.”

She shot him a look. “If you laugh, Valarr, I swear-”

“I would never,” he said, utterly unrepentant.

He set aside his sword with deliberate care. Armor followed, slow, methodical movements, as if preparing for battle. In a way, he was. He rolled up his sleeves, scarred forearms catching the candlelight.

“Hold still,” he told her.

Valarr stepped closer, his presence filling the small space. He inspected the gown like an enemy formation, fingers brushing the fabric, testing where it had caught. His touch was careful. Always careful.

“You pull against it,” he said, quietly instructive, “like a frightened horse. That only makes it worse.”

She scoffed. “You’re comparing your wife to a horse now?”

“A stubborn one,” he replied. “Northern stock.”

He worked patiently, loosening seams, guiding the cloth down inch by inch. The air between them grew heavier, not with heat, but awareness. Valarr was acutely conscious of how close he stood, how her breath changed when his knuckles brushed skin.

He swallowed. This was not a battlefield. There were no rules written for this.

“Easy,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

The gown finally yielded, slipping free with a soft whisper of fabric. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Valarr’s hands stilled. His gaze darkened, not hungry, but intent. Possessive in the quiet, dangerous way that had made men fear him in tournaments. The chamber felt smaller now. Warmer.

“There,” he said hoarsely. “Free.”