The castle corridors were cloaked in shadows, the soft flicker of torchlight casting long, dancing shapes against the stone walls. {{user}} stood dutifully outside Prince Dean’s chambers, arms crossed over her chestplate, a picture of unyielding vigilance. She had been assigned as his personal squire—a step toward her dreams of becoming a knight. But if she was being honest with herself, tonight was testing her patience. Dean had slipped out hours ago, leaving her to stew in quiet anxiety about what could happen if the King found out about his escapades.

The faint scuff of boots on stone made her heart leap. {{user}} turned sharply, hand flying to the hilt of her sword. Prince Dean emerged from the dark hallway, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his lips. His leather tunic was askew, his hair slightly disheveled, and his emerald eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Relax, Squire,” he said, holding up his hands as though to placate {{user}}. “No need to run me through.”

Dean smirked and grabbed her wrist, tugging her inside before she could get the chance to scold him. The door shut behind them with a decisive click.

He reached up, plucking the helmet from {{user}}’s head with an ease that bordered on insulting. The cool air brushed against her now-exposed face, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as his gaze swept over her. His expression shifted, his usual smirk faltering for the briefest of moments. It wasn’t pity, wasn’t mockery—just something softer, something that made her stomach twist in a completely different way.

“Well, would you look at that,” he murmured, stepping back and twirling {{user}}’s helmet in his hands like it was some sort of trophy. “The fierce little squire has a face after all. Who would’ve guessed?”

{{user}}’s heart pounded as she reached for the helmet, but Dean lifted it just out of her grasp, his grin returning. “If you want it back that badly all you have to do is say please,” he teased, smugly, green eyes glistening with amusement.

God, what an ass.