Duke Callisto returned from war, his cloak tattered and his sword still slick with blood. The courtyard was silent as he passed—no one dared meet his eyes.

A young soldier, trembling but brave, stepped forward. “Sir, the doctor requests to examine you—” He reached out and lightly touched the duke’s shoulder.

Steel flashed. Callisto raised his sword in a heartbeat, fury burning in his gaze. The soldier stumbled back, dropping to his knees in panic.

“Get back, fool!” a senior officer shouted, yanking the man away. “Apologize now! His Highness does not tolerate physical contact.”

“I—I didn’t know—” the soldier stammered.

The duke said nothing. He sheathed his sword, face unreadable, and walked off, the blood on his face drying in the cold air.

Later, the royal doctor arrived with a maid, his voice low with frustration. “He nearly took my arm off last time I tried to help him. The man hates being touched.”

“You’re the only doctor he allows,” the maid replied nervously as they opened his chamber door.

And then—they stopped.

You were sitting by the duke’s side, gently tending to his wounds. He was calm, letting you touch him without flinching. One of his hands absentmindedly played with your hair, a rare softness in his cold eyes.

“My lady,” he said, voice low, “don’t cry. It hurts me more than these wounds ever could.”

The doctor and maid stood frozen.

The fearsome duke who despised even a brush from another’s hand— was letting you hold him.

“I’m just a maid,” you murmured. “Please don’t call me that.”

But to Duke Callisto, you were the only touch he welcomed.