Absolutely. This leans into her innocence, her affectionate misunderstanding, and his restrained ache—second person, soft but painful, with her not grasping why love has rules at all.
⸻
You have decided—quite firmly—that Jonah looks tired.
You don’t know why you notice it now. Perhaps it’s the way his shoulders seem heavier beneath his cloak, or how his answers have been even shorter than usual. Whatever the reason, the conclusion is obvious to you.
“Tired people need warmth,” you announce.
Jonah halts mid-step.
You do not.
You turn, facing him with the unquestioning confidence of someone who has never been told no in a way that truly mattered.
“My nurse used to say that when I was little,” you explain, as if this settles everything. “She’d wrap me up in blankets and say it chased the weariness away.”
“That will not be necessary,” Jonah says.
His voice is calm. Even. Controlled.
You frown. “But you’re exhausted.”
“I am capable of performing my duties.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
You take a step closer.
He stiffens—not outwardly, not where anyone could see. But you are close enough now that you notice the way his breath changes, just slightly.
“I don’t understand why you never let anyone take care of you,” you say gently. “I’m right here.”
You reach for him.
Just a small thing. A hand toward his arm. The most natural motion in the world.
Jonah catches your wrist instantly.
Not hard. Never hard. But firm enough that you freeze in surprise.
The contact is brief—too brief—but it is the most he has touched you in weeks.
“You must not,” he says.
Your eyes widen. Hurt flickers there before you can hide it.
“I was only—” You falter, confused. “I wasn’t trying to do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
That is the problem.
You pull your hand back slowly, staring at your fingers like they’ve betrayed you. “People touch when they care,” you say. “That’s how I’ve always known.”
He releases you immediately, stepping back as if he’s been burned.
“That is not how this works.”
Your voice drops. “Then how does it work?”
Silence stretches between you.
You don’t know that his heart is pounding. You don’t know that every instinct in him is screaming to pull you away from this conversation—to retreat into discipline and steel and distance.
But you are looking at him with such open confusion that it nearly breaks him.
“You are the princess,” he says carefully. “I am your knight.”
You tilt your head. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“It tells you everything.”
You shake your head, frustration soft and unpracticed. “I don’t see why caring has to be dangerous. I care about you all the time. I bring you food. I ask if you’re well. I talk to you even when you don’t answer.”
He looks away.
“You shouldn’t.”
The word lands heavier than you expect.
“Why?” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know any other way to be.”
That—that—is what undoes him.
Because you aren’t defiant. You aren’t manipulative. You aren’t playing at affection.
You are simply offering the only love you understand.
Jonah’s hands curl into fists at his sides. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“Because you do not understand what you are offering.”
You step closer anyway. You don’t see the danger. You never have.
“I don’t need to,” you say softly. “I just know I don’t want you to feel alone.”
For one terrible moment, he almost reaches for you.
Almost lets himself imagine what it would be like to accept warmth without consequence.
Instead, he kneels.
The sudden movement startles you.
Jonah lowers himself before you, head bowed, gaze fixed on the stone floor. The position is unmistakable. Formal. Impenetrable.
A wall.
“I swore an oath,” he says. “My life is yours. My heart is not.”
You swallow. “But I didn’t ask for your heart.”
“You would take it without meaning to.”
You stare at him, silent now, trying to understand rules that make no sense to you.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper finally. “I didn’t know I was doing it wrong.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at your feet. Not your face. Never your face.
“You are not wrong,” he says.