The bed’s too small for two people to lie comfortably, but neither of you mention it. Kit’s arm is draped over your waist, and your forehead rests against her collarbone, legs tangled like roots trying to grow into each other.

The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and her steady breathing. You trace idle shapes on her stomach with the tip of your finger. A circle. A star. A heart you don’t say out loud.

Kit’s voice breaks the silence.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like?” she asks, soft, like the words are something she’s not supposed to say. “If none of this—royalty, war, expectations—if it all just… didn’t exist?”

You shift, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes in the low candlelight. “All the time.”

She exhales a shaky laugh. “Sometimes I picture a house. Small, but not too small. You’ve got a window seat you always read in, and I grow things that immediately die.”

You smile. “You’d kill every herb in that garden within a week.”

“Exactly. But I’d still try. Every spring.” Her voice quiets. “And we’d have a dog. One that likes you more than me, because of course it would.”

You lean in again, resting your cheek on her chest. “I’d name her Olive.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s perfect.”

Kit laughs again, but it fades too quickly. Her hand moves from your waist to your hair, threading gently through it.

“You think it’ll ever happen?” she asks, quieter now. “That we’ll actually get there?”