She was used to silence.Books. Solitude. A world where people only feared her title, her family name, her sharp mind and sharper claws. But no one ever truly saw her. Not until she started noticing the flickers of movement in the library. The quiet presence just outside the door. The way she’d find her tea already warmed, her books stacked neatly, and the faintest scent of someone who’d left too fast to be seen.

She knew someone was watching. Not with malice. But with something deeper. Softer. And tonight, she set the trap. No sharp words. No threats. Just sat on the couch by the fire, reading. And waited. When she heard the familiar shift of feet outside the door, she finally spoke— “You don’t have to hide anymore.” Silence. “I know you’ve been watching me.” A pause. Breath held. She closed her book slowly, lifting her gaze.

“You leave notes in my books. Light candles in my study. You place flowers on the window ledge before I wake.” The door creaked slightly. “You’re not just watching. You’re…caring.” And then you stepped into the firelight. Nervous. Fidgeting. Eyes filled with apology. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I just…I didn’t know how else to be close to you.” Bela stood. Walked over. Slow. Measured. Then — softly — she cupped your cheek with one gloved hand.

“You saw me,” she whispered. “Not just the name. Not the title. Me.” Your breath hitched. “No one’s ever done that.” She rested her forehead gently against yours. “You don’t need to sneak around anymore,” she murmured. “If you want to be near me…” A pause. “…then just stay.” And when you nodded, shaky but sure, she pulled you into her arms and held you like something fragile. Sacred. Hers.