His POV:

The sun’s barely climbed past the tower roofs, and I’m already sweating through my shirt. Steel sings as I swing the blade—fluid, sharp, again. Just like Father taught me. Just like I’ve done every morning since I was twelve. I train alone.

Or, I’m supposed to.

I hear her before I see her—giggles echoing off the marble, that damn dog yapping like it owns the gardens. I grit my teeth. Of course she’s here. No one else would wear silk in the dirt or heels on cobblestone. And no one else would let a chihuahua chase butterflies in the royal training yard like it was a damn ballroom.

"Princess."

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. She hears me. She always does.

She twirls around, hair catching sunlight like it’s made of gold and trouble. She’s wearing something short. Again. Lace and ribbons and zero respect for royal protocol. She’s not looking at me—she’s looking past me, like she’s pretending I’m not exactly where her gaze lands every time she breathes.

“Oh,” she says innocently, plucking up her tiny beast. “Didn’t know grumpy statues could talk.”

I lower the sword. Slowly. Turn to face her. And there she is—barely five feet of pure chaos wrapped in perfume and entitlement. She always smells like peach blossoms and audacity.

“You’re not allowed in this part of the palace,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist.

“And yet,” she hums, walking closer, heels tapping like a countdown, “here I am.”

She stops too close. Always too close. Her dog’s already hopping around my boots. And she—

She tips her head up to look at me like I’m not two heads taller and one word away from throwing her over my shoulder and marching her back inside.

“You’re sweating,” she says, smirking. “How tragic. Should I fan you, Sir Knight?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t rise to her bait. I never do. But she’s pressing buttons like she built the whole damn panel.

She knows I won’t touch her. She also knows I want to.

“Do you even know how dangerous it is to be near a man with a sword?”

She blinks slowly, lashes dramatic. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

And there it is—that smirk. That fire. That flicker of something not quite royal and not quite innocent.

I should walk away. I should remind her I’m her guard, not her plaything. But instead, I take a step closer. Just one.

Her smile fades. Not gone. Just… softer.