don’t ya, steve?

Deep breaths fill your nose with the smell of mountain thyme and the beginnings of petrichor, blowing in from the thick storm clouds on the horizon. They were still a ways away, allowing you a little more time to sit out with the sheep. You're stooped on a wooden crate, scratching tenderly at the chin and head of a sweet lamb, only a week old—born the day after your night with Sir Steven. She stands next to you on uncertain legs, tilting her head here and there to get the most satisfaction from your touch.

"Such a pretty girl," you coo at her softly, the smile on your face evident in your voice. Her head nudges your knee, and she bleats a little response. You like to imagine she's thanking you.

"A girl so sweet needs a name," you insist, looking out on the horizon as you ponder. The world she came into was one of possibility. You always had the belief that you could make something of yourself if you were only allowed, the encouragement from Sir Steven finally made this belief accessible. The final push needed to close the distance between yourself and a real future.

"Sigrid, maybe?" you suggest. "It means beautiful victory. I've had one of those of my own recently, I'd be rude not to share the wealth."

She bleats again.

"I like it, too," you giggle. The fast-moving clouds above you both let in occasional bursts of sunlight, glowing through her pink ears. As you start to gently brush the sides of her neck, once distant footsteps draw closer to you, combining with the subtle clink of a sheathed sword against a thin, steel leg brace. Steven. Your Steven, as he signs every note to you. Yours, he whispers against your neck every chance he gets lately. The afterglow of the days that followed your union has been blissful, and thrilling. You both sneak away at any chance you can to meet in secret corners. What were once shared glances across great rooms during obligations have turned into longing stares. He kisses you like a man starved. When you tell him this, he says it's because he is.

"New friend of yours?" he asks as he approaches, his hands landing on your shoulders. A kiss is pressed to the side of your head.

"Mhm," you reply, turning to look up at him. "I finally had enough time to meet her. This is Sigrid."

"I like it," he says, kneeling next to your crate. You catch a sharp inhale as his knees meet the ground, and you turn back to see a tense furrow in his brow.

"What's wrong?" You ask, your eyes going a little wide.

"It's really nothing," he insists. "One of the squires, Lucas, he's close to finishing training, and he got a little too into it when we were sparring yesterday. I'm alright."

You tilt your head as your eyes narrow slightly. Steven sighs before he pulls up the side of his shirt, revealing a large bruise on his ribs. It's big—about the size of your hand, and deep purple, with jagged edges that were just starting to turn bluish-green. It's clearly painful, given away by the stiffness and wincing any time he moves. Your hand reaches out to lift the shirt for him, hoping to alleviate any pain.

"A little too into it?" you repeat in disbelief. "Were you wearing armor?"

He pulls his lips into his mouth.

"Steven," you scold.

"No, but I never do when it's just training," he says dismissively. "I've been teaching them how to fight since they were 10, I forget how strong they are now. Guess I did my job a little too well."

"This looks painful," you say, frowning a little. "Please tell me you aren't training again today."

"No, I finished training an hour ago," he says, oblivious to what you're actually asking of him.

Your shoulders drop.

"You mean you got up and fought with that on your body?" You tenderly press your palm to the side of the bruise.

"The oldest ones are so close to finishing their training, I can't let them down," his voice is gentle. You know how deeply he cares for his initiates, how proud he feels watching them grow into real knights.

You remember watching the grass in front of the squires' quarters when you were 16, and Steven was 17. He was newly knighted, having sworn his loyalty to the keeping and protection of your family—you, in particular. He was the only one of the initiated knights who paid the squires any mind, running with them and offering chances to spar. Now that Steven was officially training them as a captain, he worked himself ragged to form them into chivalrous, talented fighters. Your face softens as you think of this, the low heat of frustration melting into admiration for his commitment to being a good example.

"They won't have a captain to train them if you keep fighting without armor," you say, moving your hand from his ribs to his cheek. "You're a good teacher, Steven, but they need you healthy. So do I." He smiles a little, his face relaxing.

"Wise girl," he mutters lovingly, placing his palm over yours, pressing your hand even closer to his face. You lean down to kiss the tip of his nose, his lips, his forehead, coaxing him to understand.

"I'll be good," he finally says after a face full of kisses.

"Thank you," you beam. "I'm your princess after all, it would be so unchivalrous of you to refuse." Steven lets out a warm laugh, laying his head on your clothed thigh. He sighs as his cheek makes contact with the velvet of your dress. Your fingers brush through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp and the back of his neck. You lean down to his ear.

"Come to my room tonight," you whisper.

"Don't I do that every night?" He teases, his voice muffled by the material of your skirt.

"I'll have something special," you hint. "It'll help with your war wound, too."

"Deal," he sighs, sitting up. "I'll see if I can get out of patrol a little early." As Steven starts to stand, the droplets of rain that were once halted in anticipation start to fall, making gentle pattering sounds against the roof of the sheep pen. Sigrid trots away, seeking the refuge of the roof and the warmth of her mother and siblings.

"I'll bring you back home," Steven says, grunting softly as he stands, and he offers a hand to you. You take it, trying to still carry the majority of your weight to avoid straining his injured side. Through the translucence of his linen shirt, you can still see the harsh purple starkly contrasted against his otherwise pale torso. It's clear that it hurts, and you hate that, but you can't help but love what it represents. Steven was many things. Cocky at times, stubborn as a mule, and impulsive, but loyal, shamelessly affectionate, and unfailingly generous.

"Are you taking the back or going in front?" His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and your head follows it up to where Sir Steven sits atop his horse, Nora. You give her a long stroke down her neck, her dark brown mane almost presenting maroon under the darkness of the storm clouds.

"I'll sit behind you," you say, grabbing the edge of the saddle to hoist yourself up before he can offer to lift you. After situating yourself, your arms wind around his middle, doing your best to avoid his bruise. You smile to yourself as you feel the soft curve of his stomach through his shirt. With a sigh, you press your cheek to his shoulder.

"I thought you liked sitting in front," he recalls, turning his head slightly to speak to you.

"I do," you say, briefly pressing your lips to his clothed shoulder blade. "But it's the middle of the day, and I would rather not give my mother more excuses to scold me for being unbecoming."

He makes a little hum of agreement as he gently tugs the reins toward the path back to the castle.

"Have you given any more thought to our idea?" Steve asks, and you swallow a little nervously. The idea of running away from home still intimidated you slightly. Although it was your best, and likely only chance at a life of your own, you would still be leaving everything you had ever known behind you, except Sir Steven. The thought of having to start again was frightening, eased only by the notion that you would finally have freedom. Still, the sadness about leaving your family, your beautiful home, having to start all over again with little awareness of the real world settled low in your heart, still dwarfed by the sadness that you felt at the idea of being sent off to marry and have babies with a stranger.

"It'll be easier after the feast for the winter solstice," you explain, recalling that you came to this conclusion on an especially restless night a few days ago. "Preparations happen for all of November, and Mother and Father will be breathing down my neck constantly that whole time."

"I was thinking the same, actually," he agrees. "Inn prices are usually lower in winter; we would have an easier time traveling." When he mentions this, your mind drifts dreamily to a soft, candlelit fantasy—you and Steven, cramped into a little bed in a tiny inn room. Maybe a little floaty from the mead you drank with dinner. He'd have his big arms wrapped around you, lazily exploring your body with his lips and his hands, pulling the softest, sweetest sounds from you as he guides your hips to-

"We're here." His voice pulls you back to the real world, and you shudder, suddenly aware again of how the chilly rain has soaked through your hair and dress sleeves. He's brought you to one of the more discreet entrances to your home, hidden in the garden where a small doorway lies unassumingly behind a trellis. Steven dismounts and offers a hand to help you down, and your shoes land with a soft 'squish' on the now damp grass. As his hand brushes away the damp strands that stick to your forehead, you feel yourself unconsciously lean into his touch.

"I'd steal you away right here and now if I could," he says in a low voice, a soft smile on his face.

"I'd let you," you sigh. "I'll see you tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies, glancing around for any unwelcome eyes that could be on you both before he takes your waist into his hands and kisses you. "I'll see you soon, angel." He lifts the trellis back, and you slip behind it, tiptoeing down the short hallway to the kitchen door. You push it open with an effortful huff, the hinges squeaking far louder than you would prefer and certainly announcing your arrival to whoever is inside. As you gingerly close the door and prepare to dash through the kitchen, someone emerges from the pantry.

"I don't know where you're actually supposed to be, but it's not here," the voice is snarky, with no actual meanness behind it, belonging to Dustin. You had known Dustin since he was an infant. Your mother and father enjoyed offering greetings to new families that settled in the village surrounding the castle. At five years old, you begged to join the steward who would be welcoming the most recent family. When you were finally given permission, you went to the village and entered the tiny house, surprised to see only a kind-faced woman with a tiny baby instead of a father and mother with a whole clan of children. You would come to learn that the woman, Claudia, was entirely wonderful. Devoted to raising a respectful young man, and talented with food and herbal medicine. When Dustin was 10, the captain at the time offered him a position in squire training. He was lovingly dismissed to kitchen work after spending most of his training time searching for insects and demonstrating his lack of collarbones to anyone who would watch. Dustin was smart, frighteningly so, and you were glad to call him a friend.

"This was the quickest way in from the rain," you quickly spit out the excuse, wringing out your sleeve onto the floor in a desperate attempt to qualify your excuse.

"Uh-huh," he muses, setting the crate of potatoes he was carrying onto the large wooden counter. "I've been looking to talk with you, actually. There's this opportunity that's sort of come my way, and I need a favor."

Your eyebrows furrow in curiosity, and you stride to stand across from him, on the other side of the counter.

"A favor?"

"Yes," he starts, taking a deep breath. "I've been exchanging letters with this cartographer a few towns over. I told him I was interested in maybe trying my hand at cartography and mapping smaller territories, and he told me he would be interested in taking on an apprentice. Only problem is, I need a written letter from someone in your family recommending me for it."

Your eyes widen, excited at the news that Dustin may finally have a challenge worthy of his intellect.

"What do you think?" he asks nervously. "Would you write the letter for me?" Dustin's hands nervously dig into the wood grain of the countertop. You don't need to think twice.

"I would be thrilled to recommend you, Dustin," you answer sincerely. His face breaks into a smile, and he doesn't waste a second before rounding the counter, wrapping you in a hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says over and over, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You hug him back.

"You're so welcome," you reply, giving him a final pat on the back before releasing him. "Everyone knows your talent is wasted down here anyways. What does your mother think?"

"When I told her it was a day away on horseback, she sobbed so hard I thought she was going to fall over," he answers, wiping a little at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But she knows I want more than being in a kitchen the rest of my life. I just wish I could take her with me."

"Maybe one day you will," you say, your voice wavering a little with emotion. "I'm happy to write your letter, just let me know when you need it, alright?"

"I will," Dustin says. You give him a final smile before you turn toward the door that leads upstairs.

"And I'll make sure you get extra dessert tonight! You've earned it!" He calls.

On your way to your room to change out of your still-soaked dress, a voice calls out from a laundry room in the hall.

"Your mother's been looking for you," a chambermaid warns as she wrings out a sheet into a washing pot.

"When is she not?" you sigh. You notice her struggle slightly as she hauls the heavy length of cloth over to a drying line, and you step onto the room, lifting up the sheet to help her smooth it.

"Thank you for the warning," you say, peering from the side of the sheet. "I'll be a little prepared now." She smiles before she returns to another round of washing, and you return to your room, eager to be in a clean dress. A deep green one speaks to you tonight, fitting for the rain that has developed into a raucous thunderstorm. After you change, you brush your hair, trying your best to sort out the tangles and unruliness that the rainwater had caused. You steel yourself for what was almost certainly going to be a long, unhappy conversation with your parents. The exhaustion of being stalled, underestimated, belittled, and dismissed for years had been bearing on your mind stronger than usual. Now that you had some idea of a future away from it all, your longing only strengthened. You thought about Dustin, too, how thrilled he seemed at the prospect of a life devoted to making something, helping people, and doing it on his terms. You were very pleased that one of your last acts as princess would be helping a young man with enormous potential achieve a dream.

You walk stiffly to the library in your parents' personal wing—shoulders back, head high, hands clasped one over the other in front of your body. As your hand grasps the door handle, you take a deep breath.

"Very kind of you to show," your father says from the land table, eyes not leaving the map in front of him. Your mother rests on a settee with a tense hand wrapped around a teacup.

"I was told you were looking for me," you say, prompting them to get to what it is they actually want to talk about.

"Would you like to tell us where you were?" your mother asks, punctuating the question by setting her cup back on the saucer. The clanging porcelain grates against your ears. You consider lying for a moment, claim that you were reading in the gallery, or you felt unwell and decided to lie in bed until you were summoned for something. Usually you would, an excuse would roll off of your tongue as easily as the truth from the years and years of having to hide your true feelings or whereabouts. But today, a combination of your own will growing, Steven's affections, and Dustin's commitment to his own dreams has pushed you to try being truthful.

"I was out in the pastures," you say, the nervousness in your voice betraying you. "I finally had enough free time to walk over there, and I wanted to meet the new lamb." Your father scoffs, and you can see him roll his eyes when you glance his way. Your mother's posture stiffens, her lips pursing disapprovingly.

"You were unchaperoned, I assume?" She sounds more frustrated than disappointed.

"When I was walking there, yes," you explain. "But I'm 22, I don't need to be minded like a child everywhere I go."

"You are a child," your father reminds you, managing to sound bored and harsh simultaneously. You roll your shoulders again, trying to regain your footing in the argument.

"I was within the patrol boundaries, and Steven brought me back home," you justify, feeling your hands start to sweat a little.

"Sir Steven is a guard's captain, he has better things to do than rescue you from your own foolishness," your mother refutes.

"He's perfectly capable of doing his job and attending to my safety," your voice wavers again, and you inwardly cringe.

"You have a wedding to plan, which means you have far more important responsibilities," your father asserts from across the room. "I do not want to hear anymore about you running off through the woods to make friends with the sheep." Your jaw clenches unpleasantly.

"Yes, sir." The words taste ugly in your mouth as you say them.

"If we're finished discussing this frivolity, we have an obligation for you," your mother explains. "Lady Jane Ives of the southeast territory has recently come of age, and she is soon to become queen. You will represent the family at the coronation."

Your face softens at the mention of Lady Jane. Fond images of her shy smile and pretty, wavy brown hair drift into your mind. You would undoubtedly be happy to see her again, but your heart lurches a little at the thought of how young she is. The same age as Dustin, now expected to lead an entire territory. Regardless, you were relieved that this was why your mother and father were so insistent on seeing you today.

"When will this be?" you ask, hearing a lightness in your voice that wasn't there before.

"A month from tomorrow," your mother says. "You'll leave on the fifth of November, allowing you and Sir Steven at least two days to travel. You will be accommodated in the Ives Estate."

Two whole days alone with Steven, with no prying eyes to catch the gentle kisses he loves to press to the side of your face, the interlacing of your fingers. You feel a rush of warmth to your cheeks, thinking of how shamelessly you'll be allowed to love him for that brief little window.

"I'm looking forward to it," you express earnestly.

"You are?" Your father's voice is a little startled, and your mother looks equally confused as to why you don't appear dreadful about being sent away on official business.

"Lady Jane is a wonderful girl," you say, the circumstances actually allowing you to be honest. "I'm happy to be the one congratulating her on such an occasion."

Your parents look at each other, blinking a little in disbelief.

"We're glad to hear this." Your mother's tone has adjusted, almost entirely unaffected by the shock of your enthusiasm.

"You're dismissed," your father announces.

You smile big to yourself as you turn away from them, unable to contain your excitement.

In preparation for Sir Steven's arrival later in the evening, you ask for an especially hot bath to be prepared. After your bathwater is hauled, you go over to your little herbal cabinet, reaching for things that will help soothe the pain in his side. Grapefruit peels for relaxing him, mugwort for helping the bruise heal, a little rosemary to ease the muscles.

The knock on your door that comes a little before midnight has become the happiest sound of your life, and you nearly knock yourself off of your feet every time you hear it. You fling the door open and pull Steven inside, not even allowing yourself a chance to look at him before you throw your arms around his neck.

"My angel," he sighs, his arms wrapping around your back with equal emotion. Steven is always warm to the touch, and you smile as you feel his large hands roam your sides. As he cranes his head upward to look at your face, he gets a glimpse of the steaming washing basin, which fills the air with a pleasant aroma.

"Is that for me?" His voice is soft and a little surprised. Steven can't recall the last time he washed somewhere other than the river, let alone a hot bath filled with healing herbs. He had never truly been taken care of at all, now he was standing in the room of a beautiful girl who loved him, really loved him. Steven's hands cradle your waist and the back of your head, sealing you in an embrace that says more than any words he could try to form.

"Thank you," he breathes. "This bruise has been killing me all day."

"I wanted to help you if I could," you assure him, even giving a little shrug to seem casual. "And I have another surprise." You pad over to the cabinet again, pulling out a leather canteen.

"Dustin was nice enough to slip this to me after dinner," you explain. "He's been secretly making wine from every fruit we grow, this is blackberries."

"Kitchen Dustin? Dustin that I used to train?"

You nod.

"I miss him," Steven muses, giving the liquid a sniff. "Strange kid, but he was fun to teach. This smells pretty good, actually." He gives it a quick swig and grimaces slightly.

"Good and strong, I'd pour lightly," he says, passing the canteen. As you pour the wine into chalices, Steven opens the doors of your balcony to let in the sounds of the rain and gentle thunder. When he meets you at the washing basin, he kisses you, hands reaching for the ties of your dress without breaking contact with your lips. He tugs and the garment pools around your feet, goosebumps breaking out on your arms and legs at the coolness of the air. Steven's fingers skim up your sides, bracing the sides of your neck. A final kiss brushes your lips. He steps away for you to undress him, and you happily oblige. As you pull up his shirt, you're especially mindful of his left side. Your eyes land hungrily on his chest as he begins to step out of his trousers, gaze dipping lower as more of him is exposed to you.

"I know, take it in," he teases, softly kicking his clothes aside. You smile as you roll your eyes, feeling his hands on your upper arms.

"You're absurd," you insist, tilting your head as you look up at him. He kisses the tip of your nose.

"Absurdly in love," he croons, smiling.

You pull away to step into the bath first, lying back against the edge of it to leave Steven plenty of room. His fingers gently nudge your shoulder, cuing you to move forward so he can slide in behind you. You stay put.

"Let me hold you," you insist. Steven's face tightens a little, confused at the thought of being held in the way he typically holds you.

"You're hurt, Steven. Please."

The concerned ridge between your eyebrows and the sweetness of your voice make it impossible for him to refuse you—something he did not excel at already. His shoulders drop a little, signaling that you've won him over, and he steps into the basin in front of you, bracing the sides as he lowers his body into the water. You feel Steven shudder slightly at the warmth as he leans to lie back against your chest. His head lands against your shoulder, and you kiss his temple.

"Not so bad?" you mutter close to his ear, gently scratching the top of his shoulder.

"I'll survive," he sighs, snickering a little as he reaches for one of the chalices, set atop a table near the bath. He hands one to you before taking a cup for himself, and you take a tentative sip, wincing slightly at the flavor that floods your senses. It's sweet at first, then quickly becomes bitter and harsh as it hits the back of your tongue.

"This is certainly a Dustin experiment," you say, bringing the cup to your lips, chasing for another hit of its initial sweetness.

"He's nothing if not resourceful," Steven says after a tense swallow. After nursing the cups for a little while, listening idly to the soft rustle of the rain outside, they both empty, and you set them aside once more. You brush the hair off of his forehead, the strands going wavy from the water. His face nestles into the space between your neck and shoulder, where he begins to lazily kiss the damp skin. Your head tilts back, sighing as the feeling of wine in your veins makes itself known to you.

"I have some good news," you say, giggling at the feeling of his lips on your neck.

"Mm?" The vibration of the sound against you pulls another fit of quiet laughter from you, and he kisses a little harder in the hopes of pulling even more.

"A month from now, I'm going to a coronation in the southeast territory," you explain.

"The Ives land?"

"Mhmm," you reply, nodding a little. "My parents are sending me in their place to keep up the relationship with their traders. They want you to be my escort."

You feel him smile against your neck, his own soft giggling resonating against your collarbone. The wine must be hitting him, too.

"The southeast territory, that's at least a two-day ride," Steven ponders aloud. "I'll have you all to myself that long?"

"All yours," you reply, resting a hand against his chest.

"You were right when you said you had good news," he mumbles, resting a hand on top of yours. "It's perfect, like a trial for our big plan." You hadn't really thought of it this way, but he was right. Your mother and father would be deep in the planning of solstice festivities, and you would get a glimpse of the long days of traveling that would be constant until the day you and Steven settle somewhere permanently.

"I'm excited to get a little fresh air," you muse, your voice a little airy from the tipsiness.

"It's only done me good," Steven replies, scratching tenderly at the back of your hand. You look down at him and smile, suddenly filled with the urge to kiss the twin moles on his cheek. You kiss there, gradually moving your lips to the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips, as he had done when he first kissed you. He accepts your kiss happily, reaching for your hip under the water. Your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, and he parts them, encouraging you to lick into his mouth. He nips slightly at your bottom lip, coaxing a whimper from you. When his own tongue begins to slide against yours, you dip your hand lower, grasping gently at the softness of his tummy before lowering further, cupping your hand around his half-hard cock.

"Fuck, honey," he moans against your lips, pressing his hips up, eager for more friction against his length. "You don't have to if you don't want to, I'm happy just to be here with you."

"I want to," you insist. "Please, you're so good to me. Let me make you feel good, let me show you how much I love you." Steven laughs a little as his face tucks against your neck, reveling in the taste of your skin, subtly salty from sweat.

"You're too sweet to me," he mutters into your neck. "I love you more than anything, angel." Your hand wraps around his cock, fully erect and flushed a deep pink you can see, even through the water. You squeeze a little around the base, and his hips twitch obediently.

"I love you," you say, lips brushing against his—a mere tease of a kiss. His mouth chases after yours as you give the first real stroke, hand moving up and down his cock from base to tip.

"Cruel woman," he whines. "You know what you do to me, this is just mean." You giggle a little. Still, sympathetic to his desperation, you begin to pump your hand again, fucking his cock slowly with your fist. The continued motion develops a rhythm that Steven begins to match with his hips, grinding up as your hand strokes down. His little whimpers break into full moans, and he presses his face against your shoulder harder to stifle them. You don't have the advantage of your bed canopy to muffle the noise.

"God, I adore you," he moans, pressing his lips to the skin beneath your ear.

"So big in my hand, Steven," you say, practically a moan, considering how all of his noises and the fullness of him in your hand were causing your core to stir wildly. He thrusts into your hand harder.

"Perfect fuckin' hand," he groans. "Most perfect girl in the world and you want me, fuck." You can feel him getting closer to the edge, his hips starting to lose rhythm. You focus your movements on his pretty tip, working and stroking.

"I-fuck, angel, you're so beautiful, mm-you have me, in any way you could have me, I'm yours. All I've wanted is to be close to you, I begged the stars for you, God I-"

Steven's hand grasps at your thigh, aching for anything to hold onto as a big rope of cum lands on his tummy, accompanied by angelic pants and moans falling from his mouth. Smaller spurts follow as you slow your hand, helping him through the last swells of pleasure. You kiss his sweaty temple, then reach for a drying cloth on the table. You swipe it firmly against his stomach, wiping away the largest strokes of cum as it rises and lowers with his labored breaths. You set the cloth aside and rest your hand against his chest again.

"I asked the stars for you, too," you admit, your thumb stroking back and forth against his chest hair. Steven's eyes soften as they look up and into yours, his pupils almost swallowing the hazel around them entirely.

"Do you remember when that awful duke from the mountains kept pestering me during the Midsummer feast?" you recall. "You were only 12, you weren't even a knight yet. This duke was twice your size, he could have gotten you put away with the snap of his fingers, but you put yourself between us anyway. Told him to step away from me, that what he was doing was wrong. That night, after the party, I stood on that balcony and asked the stars to keep you in my life forever."

Steven smiles as he listens, proud to have softened such a harsh memory for you.

"What about you?"

"The first time I asked?"

You nod.

"Well, I've loved you for as long as I can remember," he confesses, uncharacteristically shy. "But I asked for the first time a week before I was knighted. Everyone in the castle went down to the village for the King's Parade, and you were sitting on this big, fancy wagon with your mother and father. You caught this boy smacking a doll out of his sister's hand, and without thinking, you leapt out of your seat, away from your parents, and you picked up this little girl's doll and handed it back to her, You were in this frilly dress, and the bottom of it got dirty when you were kneeling down talking to her, and you didn't care less. She was so happy to meet you, so excited to have this beautiful, smart girl to look up to. When everything was over that day, I snuck out to look at the sky. I asked for you to choose me to knight when my training was over. That you would want me by your side."

"They granted your wish, huh?" you say softly, stroking tenderly at his cheek with your fingertips.

"Yours, too," he counters, his voice sincere. "Unless you say the word, I'm not going anywhere."

You smile sleepily, gazing into his pretty eyes. The future was so wide, just out of reach, but still ensnared by heavy tangles of uncertainty. Despite this, Sir Steven lies against you unapologetic in the certainty of his love for you. You kiss his lips gently before you speak again.

"I like you right here."