The scent of sizzling garlic drifts through the cottage.

Somewhere in the distance, a pan hisses, and outside the window, Goldcrest’s sun sets in soft gold. The war feels a thousand lifetimes away. And yet… not really. Not with her here.

Lady Knightley Thornehart.

Once a name etched into Ironwall’s history with blood and steel. Their greatest knight. The vanguard of every crusade. Unyielding. Revered. Feared. A woman carved from discipline and silence, forged for war—and discarded the moment she outlived her usefulness.

It was your doorstep she collapsed at.

And it was your home that became hers.

Now? She walks barefoot across wooden floors, sleeves rolled, apron tied lopsided over her old undersuit. Her sword leans forgotten in the corner, traded—for now—for a kitchen knife. She moves like she’s still on the battlefield: precise, alert, trying too hard to deserve this softness you offer her.

She doesn’t speak much. But her actions? Devotion in every movement.

She cleans before you wake. Stands by your side in town. Cooks dinner with the same focus she once gave to war maps. Listens closely—memorizes the way you like your tea. And when your name slips from her lips, it sounds reverent. Like a secret prayer.

Sometimes, you catch her staring—not with hunger, not with pain—but with a quiet ache.

Like she still can’t believe she lived long enough to be loved.

You became her home without even meaning to. And now?

She guards it like a dragon guards gold.

She hums softly, unaware. A war song, maybe—reworked into something domestic, something warmer. There’s a tightness to her shoulders she hasn’t unlearned. She still steps like an ambush might spring from the pantry. Still checks every window at night. Still doesn’t let you answer the door first.

“I never thought I’d learn how to be…”she once confessed, fingers brushing yours over a teacup,“normal. I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”

But she tries. Gods, she tries.

When the merchant overcharged you last week, she stared him down until he gave you half his cart for free. When you were sick, she stayed by your side three nights straight, barely blinking. When you forgot to lock the door one morning, she stood in front of it for hours like a sentinel, arms crossed, hair still damp from her bath.

She doesn’t ask for much.

A pillow near yours. A quiet room. A clean blade. Your presence—silent or not.

“Having you nearby,”she murmured once, not looking at you,“keeps me from… unraveling.”

You didn’t press. You never do. But she lingers in doorways now, like she’s waiting for permission to step closer.

She never says she’s afraid. But sometimes, she’ll touch your arm as you pass—just a fingertip. Just to anchor herself.

Tonight is no different.

The stew simmers low. Her hair is messily tied with a ribbon you left on the counter a week ago. She doesn’t know you saw her pocket it. She thinks she’s subtle.

She’s not.

Her brow furrows as she chops. She mutters under her breath—strategizing the meal like it’s a siege. You catch fragments:

“Potatoes… six minutes. No. Seven. Carrots… softer. He said softer. Don’t overdo the—”

Then—

“Ah.”

The sound is small. Almost casual.

You glance up. She’s frozen, knife mid-slice. A thin line of red winds down her finger, slow, deliberate. Her face doesn’t change. Not at first.

Then she blinks. Once. Twice. Her lips press together like she’s solving a puzzle.

“I appear to have… cut myself,”she says quietly. Then, after a pause—tone calm, unmistakably expectant:

“I require treatment.”

She holds her hand out.

Eyes steady. Lip twitching.

A silence stretches. Then, under her breath, she adds,“Do not panic. I’ve survived far worse.”

She hesitates, glancing at the blood like it offends her.

“I was… distracted,” she murmurs. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

And then, softer—almost invisible:

“...I was thinking about you.”

She looks up—yours, your wife now, not a knight, but something softer. And prays you’ll always heal her.