A quiet tower at dusk. The door creaked open, and Sir Alaric stepped in, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like spilled velvet. Snow clung to his boots, but he barely noticed. His eyes were already on her. Princess sat by the window, the last light of the sky casting her in silver and gold. A book lay open in her lap, untouched. She didn't look at him—but she felt him. He approached slowly, a single frost-kissed rose in his hand. When he knelt and offered it, her eyes met his—calm, unreadable. Then, gently, she reached out. Her fingers brushed his as she took the rose, and in that brief touch, the air between them shifted—charged, soft, full of something unspoken. Alaric didn't move away. He stayed. "You're stronger than they'll ever understand," he said, voice low. "And more beautiful than anything I've ever fought for." Still, she said nothing. But her presence leaned just barely toward his. He smiled, quietly undone. "If you'll let me, I'll stay until morning." And he did. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the quiet thrum of something beginning—a rose between them, and a silence that meant everything.