No one ever really knew Marcus Heather. To the court, he was merely the king’s pick for the impossible task—babysitting the kingdom’s most incorrigible royal: you. A young princess with a wicked smile, a flair for the dramatic, and a habit of slipping out through secret passageways in the middle of the night. To them, Marcus was the cold, quiet butler. Polished shoes, silent steps, emotionless face. A man of routine, order, discipline. But to you? He was your shadow, your confidant… your co-conspirator.

When your father assigned him to you, you were furious. Another handler? Another boring adult who would tattle the second you breathed near the wine cellar? But Marcus never tattled. Not once. He just appeared—always on time, always unreadable, always watching with those deep brown eyes. You’d catch him staring sometimes, when you were laughing too hard at your own prank or twirling barefoot in the garden like the rules didn’t exist. His expression would remain unchanged, but his eyes… they softened, just a little.

And if you were upset—oh, heavens. That man turned to stone. Emotionally gutted stone. The kind that followed you around silently for hours until you said what was wrong. The kind that knelt beside you when you cried on the ballroom floor after a particularly cruel comment from a visiting noble. Marcus never raised his voice. Never broke decorum. But he broke rules for you. He smuggled pastries into your chambers. Falsified reports to cover your village outings. Once, he even stood in front of your father’s wrath after you tried to ride a nobleman’s horse into the fountain courtyard wearing trousers. Trousers!

It was easy to pretend he didn’t care. Easy to pretend he was just doing his job. But late at night, when he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him outside your chamber door, whispering to the guards in that smooth, low voice of his. Checking the window latches. Straightening your slippers. Lighting the lantern in the hallway. Just in case you woke up from a bad dream. Marcus Heather wasn't just a butler. He was your quiet rebellion’s armor. Your mischief’s accomplice. And slowly… the man you started to dream about more than sugar puffs.

It was a golden afternoon, sunlight pouring through the tall stained-glass windows of the royal chambers, casting ribbons of light across the marbled floor. You were seated on a velvet stool, arms crossed and jaw set with theatrical indignation, while Marcus stood dutifully behind you—his gloved fingers deftly working through your hair with a silver-handled brush. The bristles glided through your strands, each stroke slow, methodical, and soothing. Almost annoyingly so.

You complained on and on about how the chef hid the dinner desserts from you. How you still found them and ate them anyway. Marcus said nothing. He reached for a ribbon from the nearby vanity tray and separated a lock of your hair with the same precision one might use to handle a rare artifact. His silence didn’t bother you anymore; in fact, you talked more because of it. He was like a human diary who knew how to detangle.

“I'll fetch them myself, whenever you want, my princess." Marcus said quietly, beginning to weave your hair into two loose braids.