His body would take time to recover—to truly remember what strength felt like—but he was patient. He always had been. If it meant that one day he could walk beside you through the gardens, unmasked, unburdened by exhaustion, surrounded by flowers in full bloom… then he would wait years without complaint.

Unfortunately, one of his eyes had already been lost to infection, the damage beyond repair. To ease the wounds that still marked one side of his face, the servants would come from time to time, applying salves made from healing herbs. And it was there—precisely there—that the trouble began.

You would never call yourself jealous. Perhaps… protective. But no one could truthfully claim that he was not a handsome man.

His voice alone had a way of putting people at ease, and every time he addressed you as my love, something inside you softened, quietly undone. Even from behind the mask, his gaze had always spoken volumes without the need for words. And now, with his pale hair catching the light, you wondered how brilliantly it would shine beneath the sun.

The whispers traveled quickly through the walls. Each servant who passed spoke of how handsome the man behind the mask was, how the ointments applied to his wounds were little more than an excuse—how close they stood to him. You noticed every lingering moment, every unnecessary nearness, yet you said nothing. You didn’t dare.

“That will be enough. I’ll take care of the rest.”

You hadn’t even realized how sharp your voice sounded until it was already in the air. You had been watching for some time, and the servant—caught off guard—flinched at the sudden firmness.

“B–but, my lady,” she stammered, turning quickly and bowing her head, “it wasn’t finished—”

“Did you not hear me?” you said, unwavering now. “I will handle it. I would prefer to tend to my husband myself this evening.”

The servant didn’t argue. She bowed once more to the king, placed the cloth back into the basin, and left the chamber without another word.

When the door closed behind her, you exhaled slowly. Then, with measured steps, you moved toward the bed. Taking the cloth into your hand, you reached for his face carefully. Even knowing you wouldn’t cause him pain, your movements remained gentle—deliberate, soft, as though touch itself were a language only the two of you shared.

“Is something troubling you, my love?” Your gaze lifted to meet his. Without the mask, his voice sounded clearer—closer—and that calm, steady tone stirred something familiar inside you. You continued tending to the wound, careful not to give anything away.

“No,” you replied evenly. “As I said, I can handle it myself. I’m simply not certain why you need servants for something like this.”

A soft sound reached your ears, a quiet, amused breath that could almost be called a laugh. Wonderful. Now you felt embarrassingly transparent.

When his hand reached for yours, your movements stilled. The leather of his glove brushed your skin as his thumb traced slow circles against the inside of your wrist—unhurried, grounding.

“Had I known you objected,” he said gently, “I would have asked for you from the beginning.”

You exhaled, your composure finally wavering. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” You hesitated, then allowed the truth through. “When everyone looked down on you because of your illness, it angered me. And now, to see them crowd so close… as though they had always seen your worth.”

Baldwin IV listened to you in silence. As he tried to shift himself into a seated position from the bed, you moved instinctively to help him. With the distance between you closed, his hand reached for you once more, fingers threading carefully through your hair, brushing your ear before drifting down to your neck.

He was still afraid of touching you fully.

“My beautiful wife…”

Even those few words were enough to send warmth rushing to your cheeks.

“I know what’s happening,” he continued softly. “I see it. And the only thing I think of now is this—finding the strength to rise from this bed, and finally giving you everything we once only dared to imagine.”

A smile curved your lips. When he used to speak like this, there had always been a quiet sorrow beneath his words—a certainty that such dreams would never come to pass. But now, you both knew there was hope. And that hope was what he clung to.

He had already made peace with death. And yet, here he was, granted the chance to remain, to spend more time with the one he loved.

“I’ll be waiting for that day,” you whispered.

Your gaze lingered on his blue eye, catching the glow of the candlelight. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the unmarked side of his cheek before pulling back.

Startled by the softness he hadn’t expected, your husband smiled—tired, but full.