Willas Tyrell had learned early that time moved differently for him.

It dragged when he stood, leaned heavy on his cane, watching others stride past with careless legs and louder lives. It slowed further when his joints ached and the weather turned damp. And yet—when it came to you—it betrayed him entirely, slipping through his fingers like fine Reach wine, leaving him startled each time he realized how long he had been watching, thinking, circling.

Marriage had been spoken of around him his whole life like a chore, a necessary courtesy. Alliances. Coin. Names on parchment. When the Penrose match was suggested, he had accepted with the same mild nod he gave to most things. Stormlands. Loyal. Unassuming. Safe.

He had not expected you.

Not the way you moved—compact, grounded, built like you belonged to the earth rather than the sky he so often studied. Not the way your dark eyes lingered too long on details others ignored, nor the way your hands were always busy, restless, as if the world needed arranging and you alone could see how poorly it was done. You smelled faintly of balsalm, something green and sharp and steady, and it clung to his thoughts more stubbornly than it had any right to.

Willas liked to think himself observant. He bred animals, after all—watched bloodlines, temperaments, small tells. And yet with you, he found himself perpetually behind, trying to catch up. You forgot names—often his bannermen’s, once even a cousin—and somehow remembered the precise weight of a hawk’s jesses or the angle at which a joint ought to be set. You miscounted coin and yet could haggle a merchant into near tears. You disliked being touched, flinched even from kindness, and still haunted the lists at tourneys, eyes bright as Loras thundered past.

You were difficult. Prickly. Quiet in ways that unsettled him. And Willas—gods forgive him—was fascinated.

He told himself it was concern at first. A husband’s duty. You were small, after all, and Highgarden could be overwhelming. But concern turned into anticipation. He began timing his walks so he might pass the solar when you read, slowing deliberately, pretending his leg pained him more than usual just to linger. He listened for the faint rustle of your skirts, the soft scolding tone you used on servants who littered, the flutter of wings from the ridiculous little bat you insisted on keeping.

At night, when the stars came out and the castle slept, Willas lay awake cataloguing you the way he once had constellations. The curve of your round face when you frowned in thought. The strength in your arms that surprised him the first time he noticed it. The way violet suited you better than Tyrell green ever could.

He wondered—more often than he should—what it would be like if you did not pull away. If you leaned into him instead. The thought was almost painful, sharp and bright, and he hated himself a little for wanting it so badly.

He knew others thought him gentle, boring even. Let them. They did not see the way his thoughts circled you endlessly, patiently, like a hawk riding warm air. He would never force your regard. Never cage you. But gods, he wanted it. Wanted you to choose him—not out of duty, not out of parchment and seals, but because you saw him.

Because you stayed.

That evening, he found you near the rookery, the sky bruised lilac as dusk crept in. He rested his weight against his cane, watching you in silence longer than necessary, heart steady but intent.

“Sweetling,” he said at last, voice soft, almost careful. “You’ll miss the stars if you keep your eyes on the ground.”