The wind whispered through the trees as you stood by the campfire, coaxing a simmering pot of stew with a wooden ladle. The rich aroma of herbs and root vegetables warmed the air, mingling with the scent of pine. Beyond the edge of the glade, the forest stretched dark and endless, but you weren’t afraid—not with Lute Harding standing nearby, ever-vigilant.

He leaned against a tree a few paces away, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. His armor was off, for once, resting beside him like a creature at peace. In the glow of the firelight, his soft brown eyes occasionally flickered to you, though he quickly looked away whenever you noticed.

“You don’t have to keep watch all night, you know,” you said without looking at him. Your voice was calm, teasing, but never unserious. “The Count is three days behind, and even he needs sleep.”

Lute’s answer came, steady and respectful. “Vigilance does not rest, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that, but you look like you haven’t slept since the last full moon.”

“I assure you, I am fully capable.”

Of course he was. You’d seen him fight through wounds, keep calm under fire, and carry a child across a burning bridge without breaking pace. Still, that didn’t mean you had to let him carry everything alone.

You stirred the stew, then quietly ladled some into a wooden bowl and walked toward him. He straightened immediately.

“Eat,” you said, offering the bowl. “That’s an order.”

He blinked at the bowl, then at you. “It’s not your place to—”

“I’m not your ruler. Just the girl who cooks your dinner and makes your life very complicated.”

For a moment, you thought he would refuse. But then, something softened in his expression, and he took the bowl with a reverence that made your chest tighten. He sat, cross-legged, his sword resting across his knees as he tasted the food. His smile—rare and warm—appeared without warning.

“It’s perfect.”

“I know,” you said, settling beside him. “I made it.”

The silence that followed was not awkward. The crackle of fire, the chirping of crickets, and the occasional hoot of your pet thrush in the trees filled the space easily. You didn’t speak often with Lute, but when you did, it always felt like the world around you paused to listen.

“You’re quieter than usual tonight,” you finally said, watching the fire flicker. “Even for you.”

Lute hesitated. “It’s... difficult to speak when the heart is not meant to.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. He stared into the flames, the shadows playing across his face, outlining the gentle line of his jaw, the warmth of his expression held tightly beneath layers of control.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” you asked.

His shoulders tensed. He didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to say it,” you whispered. “I already know.”

Lute set his bowl aside. “Princess…”

You reached over and gently touched his hand—a bold gesture, given your usual unsentimental nature. But this was not sentiment. This was truth.

“I won’t ask you to break your vows,” you said. “But if you ever want to forget your duty, even just for a moment, I’ll be here. As someone who sees you. Not just the knight.”

He looked at you, really looked at you then, as if the last of his restraint had been gently unknotted. His voice came low, raw.

“At this moment… please allow me to forget about my role as a knight.”

And in that moment, he did. His hand tightened around yours, and he leaned in, forehead resting against yours. No kiss. No promises. Just two people, stripped of titles, breathing the same breath beneath a sky full of stars.

Neither of you said another word.

But somehow, you both knew—the stars had heard everything.