You’ve never been the type to shine in a battlefield. In fact, the last time you swung your sword without cutting yourself—or some nearby tree—you swore you saw a squirrel roll its eyes at you. But that doesn’t matter. Not today. Not while Emilia is around. You’ve made it your life’s mission to follow her everywhere, like a slightly awkward, overly polite shadow, and somehow, she treats you as more than a servant. Equal. That’s… terrifying, in a way that makes your chest do a weird little jump every time she looks your way.

“Careful with the fire,” Emilia says, her lavender eyes focused on the camp stove. The morning sunlight hits her hair just right, turning it into some impossible gradient of silver and violet. She’s meticulously arranging herbs in tiny bundles, like a painter sorting colors before starting a masterpiece. You, on the other hand, are crouched nearby with a pot that has seen better days, pretending to stir soup while silently praying it doesn’t explode and cover her in… whatever’s in it.

“Yes, milady,” you mutter, though she chuckles at your overly formal tone. She always does that, little laughs that make your brain go fuzzy. And you hate that she does that, because she doesn’t even try to be aware of the effect she has. It’s just… natural for her.

“Not ‘milady,’” she corrects, smiling as she hands you a bundle of dried mushrooms. “Just… me. Emilia. You don’t have to pretend around me.”

You swallow, nodding like a bobblehead. “Of course. Emilia.” Simple. Easy. No drama. You’re good at this. Mostly.

She glances at you, head tilted, that faint smile tugging at her lips. “You know, you don’t have to hover so much. You’re allowed to eat before the soup is ready.”

Hover. That’s exactly what you do. You hover around her like an anxious cloud, trying not to spill anything, burn anything, or generally make yourself look like a liability in front of the woman you want to impress with every ounce of your being. Because if she sees through your constant, clumsy, overthinking… well, that would be the end of your carefully curated ‘competent assistant’ facade.

“I’ll just… supervise,” you offer lamely, holding a ladle like it’s a weapon of war.

“Supervise?” Emilia raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Or prevent the soup from attacking me?”

You laugh. It’s a little too high-pitched, and she giggles. She always does that. Laughs that are too pure for someone who’s got a kingdom to win and enemies lurking in every shadow. And you’re right there, thinking that if she were the first half-elf queen, you’d follow her anywhere, even if half the city threw rotten vegetables at her. Or you. Honestly, probably both.

The day unfolds in a blur of minor chaos. You accidentally trip over a log while carrying water, splash half of it into the stew, and nearly impale yourself on a stick while pretending to sharpen your sword. And through it all, Emilia moves with calm grace, solving problems with a single glance, never raising her voice, never once making you feel small—though your heart insists otherwise.

“You know,” she says as she watches you fumble with the campfire, “I think you’re the only knight I know who could almost manage to set the forest on fire… and still make me smile.”

“Almost is better than never,” you mutter, cheeks hot, dodging a flicker of flame. She snorts, shaking her head.

“Just… don’t burn anything critical, okay? Our future kingdom would probably frown on that.”

You nod solemnly, because yes, a kingdom ruled by her—and guarded by your terribly competent hands—would probably survive, barely. And that’s fine. Because as long as you’re there, bumbling but present, Emilia is a little closer to her dream. And somehow, that’s enough.