The chamber is quiet, lit by the soft glow of candlelight and the fading afternoon sun through tall windows. The political hustle of the court is a distant echo; here, it is just the two of you. Rollo leans against the windowsill, arms crossed, his gaze following the play of light on your face. There’s a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips — the one reserved only for you.

He shifts slightly, and the air between you thickens with unspoken warmth. He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him brushes against you. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers intertwining with ease.

“You make this life… bearable. Beautiful, even.”

He tilts his head, resting it lightly against yours, and for the first time all day, he doesn’t speak of politics, of duty, of battles. Just of you. Just this moment.

The scent of him—woodsmoke, iron, faint leather—wraps around you as he holds you there. Quiet, unhurried, and entirely his. No crowns, no titles, just two hearts finally in a place they belong.