He should’ve stopped you.

He knew it the moment you took his hand—so gently, like you were handling spun sugar—and slipped the first ring down his finger. A silver band, fine as frost, with a sapphire so blue it made him ache just to look at it.

Not even the royal guard wore things like this.

These were not the gifts of a friend. These were treasures from a chest that should’ve belonged to a prince. Or a suitor. Or someone far more important than a border guard whose name most nobles never bothered to remember.

And yet… here he sat.

In your room. On the edge of your bed, boots still laced from patrol, hair slightly windblown, heart galloping like a deer in his chest. You were kneeling in front of him, so casually intimate it made him dizzy, holding another piece of gold between your fingers—a delicate chain, studded with garnets, warm and red like drops of wine.

He watched your hands move as if in a dream. The way you fastened clasps, adjusted angles, turned his wrist this way or that with complete focus. As if adorning him was sacred work. As if he was something beautiful.

No one had ever looked at him like that before.

The diamonds came next.

They caught the light and scattered it across his skin, tiny stars dancing on the curve of his collarbone. He didn’t belong in this kind of shimmer—he knew it. His hands were built for bows and border posts, not bracelets carved with runes. His life had been silent duty, sharpened expectation, and barely-healed wounds.

But now?

He looked down and saw the sparkle of wealth across his chest, his fingers, even the curve of his ear where you had clipped a small gem-studded cuff.

And he felt like he might faint.

Not from the weight of it—but from the way it made him feel: Adored. Important. Chosen.

“I… I am not meant for such things,” he whispered, barely able to meet your eyes. His voice was thick, like he was swallowing sunlight. “This is… too much.”