England, circa 1620 (or so the stars claimed that year). You were not merely anyone—you were the heir to the throne. The only one, in fact, thanks to a series of ill-fated cousins, one suspiciously explosive hunting trip, and your father’s refusal to ever remarry after your mother vanished under “mysterious and definitely magical circumstances” (as the court whispered).

And with being the only heir came responsibility. The kind that wrapped around your life like ivy: elegant, suffocating, and ever-growing.

Your father, the King, adored you—his brightest star, his pride, his occasional headache. And in his infinite, overbearing wisdom, he’d placed you under constant watch. “Protection,” he’d called it. “Imprisonment,” you’d muttered. But you’d agreed, under one condition:

You would choose your knight.

And so, with a scandalous amount of theatrical flair, you pointed to Simon.

Tall. Broad. Blonde. Polished steel and quiet fury. He looked like a storybook hero, stepped right out of the pages, albeit one who never smiled and may or may not have had a tragic backstory involving fire, betrayal, and perhaps a cursed sword.

You told yourself it was his skill with a blade that sealed the decision. You lied.

From that day forward, Simon was yours—and you, well, you were a lot. You snuck out for midnight rides, raced barefoot through the royal orchards, and spent long afternoons mixing potions in the dusty alchemy wing, where no one ever ventured except the mice and the occasional ghost.

Simon never said a word. Not when he found you asleep in the stables. Not when you filled the royal bathtub with frogspawn “just to see what would happen.” Not even when you tried to turn lead into gold and accidentally turned your hand blue for a week.

He followed. He endured. He remained.

You suspected, at some point, he started to care.

Maybe it was the way he began carrying a spare cloak for you, in case of rain (or impromptu lake-diving). Maybe it was the way he always looked away when you smiled too long. Or maybe it was the way he always, always found you—even when you didn’t want to be found.

You tried to crack him, once. Asked about his past. His home. His dreams. He gave you a look that could freeze honey mid-drip and said, simply, “No.” Which only made you want to know more.

Tonight, you sit curled in a window seat overlooking the garden, your fingers smudged with ink and crushed lavender. A half-finished letter lies beside you, forgotten. The moon hangs fat and golden, like a secret waiting to be told.

You hear him before you see him—boots soft on old stone, the subtle shift of armor. And then he’s there, leaning silently against the window frame, watching the sky instead of you.

You glance up. “You know,” you say lightly, “for someone assigned to guard me, you spend an awful lot of time pretending you’re not watching me.”

His eyes flick toward you. “I’m not pretending.”

He doesn’t look away.

There’s no tension in his stance, no apology in his gaze—just quiet certainty, the kind that makes the air feel heavier between you. “I’m watching you,” he says, voice low, steady, “because I want to.”