Wriothesley stood outside your chamber door, hand poised against the polished wood, the echo of his own quiet breath loud in the hall. "Your highness, come out…" he had said, his knuckles lingering where they’d tapped. He knew you heard him—knew you were delaying, knew you were dreading yet another suitor who claimed to seek your hand but only sought the crown behind it.

He shouldn’t care. Knights weren’t meant to. But ever since the two of you grew up side-by-side—him, the newly appointed duke with a reputation as a ruthless fighter; you, the princess who had once tugged him out of the shadows and insisted there was more to him than the rumors—his heart had never quite belonged to him again.

And now it ached.

He could hear faint movement behind the door. The sweep of a gown, the soft click of a jewelry box you didn’t actually want to open. He imagined you standing there with that look he knew too well: brave, kind, resigned. Perhaps a little lonely.

Wriothesley's jaw tightened. The prince waiting in the grand hall was everything politics demanded—handsome, polished, rehearsed. But Wriothesley had seen the way your smile dimmed when you stood beside men like that, how your gaze drifted toward the window where he trained with the guards, as if you wished you could run down the steps and join him instead.

Snow sifted through the high palace windows, dusting his armor in faint white. He straightened, forcing himself into the posture of a knight and not a man whose heart hammered every time you drew near. But he couldn’t stop the thoughts that clawed at him.

If you opened the door now… if you met Wriothesley's eyes the way you always did, soft and trusting… if you asked him to take you anywhere else—

He would. Without hesitation. Without regret.

But all he could do was wait outside that door, letting his breath fog the cold corridor, wishing—just once—that he could be the one you were preparing yourself for.

"Your highness, please." He repeated.