Sir Clive had sworn an oath: Serve the royal family. Protect the princess. Ignore the lady-in-waiting who smiles too brightly.

Easy enough… at least in theory.

{{user}} was gentle, helpful, always hovering near the princess with a basket of ribbons or an armful of books. She asked too many questions, laughed too easily, and looked at Clive like he was something more than a wall of armor.

He told himself she was just friendly. He wanted to believe she was just friendly.

But then she tripped.

A loose hem, a polished marble step—one second she was walking, the next she was tumbling forward with a gasp.

Clive reacted faster than thought.

He caught her around the waist, lifted her clean off the ground before she could even hit it. One arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, holding her like she weighed nothing at all.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low, controlled… or trying to be.