The room is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of fabric as you adjust Diana’s veil. Her skin is soft beneath your fingertips — a warmth you’ve memorized by touch, not by right.

You kneel, fixing the hem of her gown like always. She watches you in the mirror, not saying a word. But her eyes… her eyes beg for something neither of you are allowed to ask for.

You can’t kiss her. You can’t hold her hand. You can’t even look too long.

All you can do is brush her hair, gently. Place her jewelry with care. Fix her veil with reverence — like you’re dressing a goddess, not the girl who once whispered her dreams to you in the dark.

And Diana, she never stops you. Never tells you to stop lingering. Never flinches when your fingers pause at her cheek just a second too long.

But every time the door opens and Claude steps in, her smile turns into marble, and you step back like you never meant anything at all.

You can’t give her freedom. You can’t give her love. But you can give her care — silent, steady, patient.

And that… That is all you’re allowed to do.