“You’re here. I’ve been looking for you.”

His voice carried both relief and restraint, quiet but edged with something deeper he refused to name. His hand found yours—gentle, yet leaving no room for refusal—as he guided you upright. When your eyes met, his gaze held steady, its usual coldness tempered by something far more fragile, something that flickered just beneath the surface.

For a moment, he said nothing. His attention moved over you instead, slow and deliberate, searching—not with suspicion, but with a quiet urgency—for any sign of harm. His fingers loosened slightly as his eyes traced your face, your arms, the subtle rise and fall of your breath, as though reassuring himself that you were whole.

When he found nothing, the tension in him eased, if only by a fraction. A quiet sigh escaped him, heavier than it should have been.

“We are bound by marriage,” he said at last, his voice steadier now, though fatigue lingered beneath it. “Whether it pleases you or not… you are the queen.” His gaze faltered for the briefest moment before returning to you, firmer, more guarded. “You can no longer run from what that means.”

The words were measured, but the strain behind them was harder to conceal. He was tired—tired of searching for you in places you should not be, tired of the constant, silent distance between you, tired of being the one person you seemed determined to avoid. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit, that quiet rejection settling somewhere he could not quite ignore.

“And this forest is no place for you,” he continued, softer now, though the insistence remained. “It’s dangerous.”

His gaze lingered then, no longer sharp, but almost hesitant as it rested on you—a fleeting warmth breaking through the stern composure he wore so carefully.

“Come back to the castle.. Please.”

The last word was quieter, nearly lost to the wind, carrying something unspoken—less a command than a quiet plea he would never fully allow himself to voice.