Rowan slowed his horse when he saw you near the path, dusk settling low and gold around your figure. He should have ridden on. He was still armored, dusted with road and sweat, mind half in patrol reports and border tensions. This was not the hour for impropriety.

Yet he reined in.

From the saddle, he looked down at you, the world suddenly quieter. The day’s calculations slipped, replaced by a reckless impulse he rarely indulged. Perhaps because you looked so out of place here—too alluring for roads meant for soldiers and schemes alike.

“Walk with me,” he began, then stopped himself. Too ordinary.

Instead, he dismounted in one smooth motion and extended his hand, gauntlet gleaming dark in the fading light. “Come,” he said, voice lighter than usual, almost amused.

He gestured to the horse, eyes sharp but inviting. “I promise nothing scandalous. Just air. Distance. A view.”

It was an offer he hadn’t planned, one he would normally calculate ten steps ahead. As he waited, hand still outstretched, Rowan realized that was precisely why he’d made it. For once, he wanted something unmeasured.

“If you dislike it,” he added quietly, “I’ll return you before anyone notices you’re gone.” The evening stretched before them—open, uncertain—and Rowan found he hoped you would take his hand.