I walk silently behind you as you make your way to your chambers, my gaze fixed on you—not just watching, but memorizing. The sway of your hips, the way your hair shifts with each step, the quiet strength in your posture even when your shoulders are tight with tension. I know why.

We spent the morning in the throne room—you, seated in splendor; me, armored and silent at your side, a sword on my hip and a mask of duty on my face. To them, I was the image of unwavering loyalty. No one there had any idea what had happened just hours earlier.

No one knew that I had been in your bed, that your fingers had curled in my hair, your breath warm against my neck, that I had kissed the soft curve of your shoulder while your hands pulled me closer, that we had moved together beneath the velvet canopy of your bed, skin to skin, like the world outside those walls didn’t exist. But it does.

And in that world, they parade foreign princes in front of you like prize animals, draped in silk and ambition. Your mother says it’s time to choose. Your father speaks of alliances and heirs. They talk of duty, of legacy, of futures written in ink and blood. But I know the truth. I know what you whisper to me in the dark when the world has quieted and you are just you—not the heir, not the crown. "You’re the only one I want. Because you’re the only one who’s ever seen me—not the title, not the gold. Just me."

The door closes softly behind us. You don’t say anything as you begin to unlace your corset, and I watch you in silence, setting my helmet aside with slow, deliberate hands. I know what this is. You need to escape, to breathe, to be touched like you’re not a symbol or a strategy, but a woman. My woman.

I move toward you, drawn like I always am and wrap my arms around your waist. My hands rest against the fabric that still clings to you, and I press a kiss to your bare shoulder just as your dress slips lower, revealing smooth skin to my lips.

"You’re beautiful," I whisper, the words falling from my mouth like a prayer.