#flustered!link

She notices him then, her eyes drifting over her shoulder to acknowledge him. Her look is soft and unguarded, and her smile is warm.

She says, "General."

He swallows again.

But he's been spotted now, so there's no use running. He nods once, forces his feet forward and turns to lean against the balustrade. The balcony overlooks the east gardens, where the view is the most private. One of her favorite quiet places, where she can turn her face up into the sun as it crawls towards its apex, feel that bit of warmth and let it in before she withdraws into the coldest parts of her castle to face the myriad of economic troubles and political instability flooding into the wake of war, and let him see the parts of her she shows to no one else.

He shoves down his pounding heart out of his throat and says, "Highness."

"It's a beautiful morning."

He nods again—because he's afraid of saying something stupid, but also because his tongue is starting to feel swollen in his mouth. He can't quite look her in the eye, but looking elsewhere is proving just as dangerous—a bare shoulder drenched in sunlight, the plunging back of her dress peeking out from beneath her ornate braid. Pale lips, just hinting at a smile.

He swivels his head in the other direction.

A breeze shivers through the garden as they bask in the sun and silence. It fills his nose, clears his head. Helps him stop thinking stupid thoughts. The wind is brisk. He unclips the stays on his cloak, unfurls it from his shoulders and holds it out for her to shrug into. She does easily, demurely—because she’s the queen, and everything she does is elegant, but also because this isn’t the first time he’s offered.

She thanks him, clutching at the collar, and he forgets to answer. He’s frowning, something in the way she moves reigniting starbursts and sensations in his brain, heating his pulse; making his fingers twitch; sending his tongue sliding against the inside of his canines while his lips twist. She notices.

She asks, quietly, “Is something the matter?”

He shakes his head, but the discontent is still scrawled all over his face. He really should’ve seen this coming. He did see this coming. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, shrouded in shadow and wearing wolfpelt, he’d been struck by how lovely she was; but there was always something to pull his mind in another direction, another foe to slay or an army to train or a kingdom to rebuild. There was always reason or discipline or logic to keep him from leaping off the brink into a precipice feelings he had no time for and no right to.

There’s nothing logical about this.

She pulls the cloak tighter around her shoulders, turning to face him and lean gently against the railing, and he makes the very great mistake of meeting her eyes. “Won’t you tell me?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is so husky it comes out closer to a growl. And she’s too perceptive not to notice, and too stubborn to be dissuaded, and still staring, so he resigns himself to the hole he’s dug for himself instead of doing something ridiculous, like try to maintain a shred of dignity in her presence. He folds his arms with a sigh and admits, slowly enough to betray how stepped on he feels, “I was just thinking that you look terribly beautiful in the daylight.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but her eyes sparkle. Maybe she’s laughing at him. Maybe he deserves it. “Is that terrible?”

He frowns. “Is it for me.”

She listens, nods, in that stately way she does when weighing a room full of concerns, but her lips are soft and just turning up at the corners, and his eyes snag on them until they disappear, hidden beneath the collar of his cloak where she’s curled her fist into it and pulled it towards her nose.

“Have I ever told you,” she muses, eyes meeting his and smoldering above the blue cloth draped over her knuckles, “how much I enjoy the smell of your cloak?”

His brow furrows at her, because he can’t tell if she’s teasing him or flirting with him, and either way he can feel it turning the tips of his ears red. Only she doesn’t tease anyone. Nor does she flirt. He unfolds his arms and turns to face her more squarely, and she takes a half-step closer, and one hand falls beneath his cloak near her hip, so close her skirts brush against his fingertips. They flex and curl, lost in the silky texture. And her eyes are still on his, still teasing, or flirting, and for the life of him he still can’t tell which.

He swallows. Hard.

Oh no.

He murmurs, because the words are setting fire to his brain, “This is a bad idea.”

“You’re right,” she says, nodding as solemnly as she can when her eyes are still glittering, and steps away again. Leaving him bereft and dizzy and confused as she turns to look out over the gardens. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

He blinks. “Were you?”

“What?”

“Suggesting something?”

She tilts her head at him like he’s the one being confusing. “Well, not if it’s a bad idea.”

He licks dry lips, and sunlight catches on gold and jewels and behind his eyes.

He… needs to get out of here.

“I have a report to read,” he says, because it’s all he can come up with and he probably does have one he’s supposed to read somewhere, and makes for the doors.

Her voice is teasing, or flirtatious.

“What about your cloak?”

“Keep it,” he growls.

He yanks the door open, feeling stupid. Stupid enough to chance one last glance at her before he goes.

She’s stealing a moment to herself, looking exceptionally beautiful, the light catching on the pearls and filagree strung in her hair so she glows like daylight. Her eyes are closed, her nose pressed to one shoulder as she breathes deep against the cloth draped over her back. His heart thuds condemningly in his chest and his feet won't move, and for that stolen moment, he can't breathe.

And he can’t think much of anything.