Kayla Goetia

He lets out a small breath of frustration. "Please don't 'my prince' me right now, Y/N. Call me Sidon."

You cast your gaze downward, your emotions an odd mix. What is troubling him so? And now you feel as though your formality has made it worse.

"I am sorry, Y/N. I am not expressing myself at all how I wish to," he says quickly, upon seeing your despondence. "I would prefer that you call me Sidon, but you don't have to, of course. And I suppose what I meant to say is . . . I think you are . . . you are beautiful, if I may say. When your back was to me a few moments ago, I couldn't help but admire your . . . tresses. I was thinking how appropriate that you were reading that book, for you are like something out of one of those poems."

He is blushing.

"I don't normally say such things to . . . well, anyone. I apologize most sincerely for my forwardness. Perhaps I should leave you as you were."

Sidon begins to back away, but you reach out and grasp his forearm. "Please, don't go. I'm just speechless, that's all. Speechless but happy," you tell him. "Thank you, Sidon."

Finally, he smiles again. Some light has broken through his storm clouds. He moves his arm so that he can hold your hand. You feel butterflies in your stomach at the touch, and suddenly an idea occurs to you.

"Since you like my hair, would you . . . comb it for me?"

"In this moment, I can think of nothing that would make me happier," he admits.

Luckily, you always keep a comb in your work bag, never knowing when a sudden gust of wind might hit, or a strand will move out of place as they so often do. You fish through your belongings for it and hand it to him, and he holds and looks at it with wonder.

"I always wish that we had hair to comb," Sidon admits. "It is a most wondrous thing to behold, a full head of hair."

"You are wondrous, my pr-- . . . Sidon," you say. "Hair or no hair." You move so that your back is to him, thinking that will give him the easiest access, but he places a hand on your shoulder to turn you around and move you toward the chair.

"Face me, please," he tells you softly. "And sit. Make yourself comfortable."

You do as he asks and meet his gaze as he reaches out with his free hand to move your hair forward. The tenderness with which he does it makes your heart leap, and you feel as though he must be able to hear it, for it beats so forcefully. He draws the comb through, taking his time with any snags. He holds your hair at the root as he works through them so he doesn't hurt you.

"Such beauty," he murmurs. He seems to have lost himself in what he is doing, and you dare not break his trance.

You cannot tell whether minutes or hours pass as he continues his ministrations. You hardly care. You feel as though you could stay just like this forever, needing nothing, nothing except the knowing that he finds you beautiful.

There is a knock at the door. A footman. He does not open the door, but speaks through it. "Prince Sidon, the dignitaries from the Gerudo have arrived."

Sidon does not answer immediately. He meets your gaze, and you see the frustration is back in his expression. "Yes. I will be down promptly," he replies.

The footsteps retreat from the door, and Sidon reluctantly lays down the comb.

Both of you give a small sigh. He leans forward and whispers into your ear, "Thank you, Y/N."