“You pout like that on purpose,” he murmurs, voice low as embers. “You know what it does to me.”

He has your trinket in hand—again. The silver comb you love, the one you left on the vanity just for a moment, and now it’s dangling from his fingers like a prize. Like bait. He smirks, swinging it back and forth as you lunge, missing it by inches.

“Try again, little wife,” he teases. “Surely your reflexes were quicker when we were ten.”

You huff. He adores it. You stomp. He watches with that infuriatingly calm grin that only falters when your hands graze his ribs—ticklish, a secret you weren’t meant to discover. You press your advantage, fingers dancing against his side, and his laughter is choked, breathless, and real.

But then—he stills.

You look up at him, panting, smiling, flushed from the game. And he looks back like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. Something sacred.

His hand finds your wrist. Gentle, but firm.

His voice drops, low enough to tremble between your bones.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that unless you want me to act like a man and not your childhood prince.”

There is heat behind his eyes now. Unspoken. Unleashed. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch anything more than your wrist.

But he doesn’t have to.

You know what he’s thinking.

And he knows—you’ll stay.