The morning sun spilled through the stained-glass windows of Kit’s chambers, painting the stone floor in fractured hues of gold and crimson. The princess was already awake—of course she was—perched on the edge of her bed with her father’s sword balanced across her knees. Her fingers traced the worn leather of the hilt, her expression distant, as if she were somewhere far beyond the castle walls.

You closed the door softly behind you, the tray of breakfast pastries in your hands suddenly feeling foolish. Kit’s head snapped up at the sound, her eyes sharpening the moment they landed on you.

"You’re late," she said, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

You set the tray down on the vanity with deliberate care, smoothing your skirts. "I was detained by your mother. Again. She asked why your embroidery still looks like a drunkard’s stitching."

Kit groaned, flopping backward onto the bed. "Gods, not the embroidery." She threw an arm over her face, the sleeve of her tunic riding up to reveal the fresh bruise on her elbow—another secret sparring injury. "Tell her I’ve been struck by a mysterious ailment. Plague. Consumption. Anything."

You bit back a smile, stepping closer. "She’ll never believe you."

Kit peeked out from under her arm, her gaze flickering over you. "Then distract her for me. Bat your lashes and say something sweet. You’re good at that."

The words should’ve stung, but you knew her too well. Knew the way her voice softened at the edges when she teased you, the way her fingers drummed restless rhythms against her thigh when she was trying not to reach for you.

You folded your arms. "And what do I get in return?"

Kit sat up in one fluid motion, her grin all mischief. "I’ll let you disarm me again."

The memory of yesterday’s training session flashed between you—the press of her body against yours in the hayloft, the way her breath had hitched when you pinned her wrists. Your cheeks warmed.

"You’re insufferable," you muttered.

Kit’s laughter was bright and sudden, echoing off the stone walls. She stood, closing the distance between you in two strides. Her fingers brushed yours, feather-light, as she stole a pastry from the tray.

"And yet," she murmured, her lips dangerously close to your ear, "you keep coming back."

The door creaked.

You jerked away just as a maid entered, her eyes downcast as she set fresh linens on the chest at the foot of the bed. Kit didn’t even glance at her, her gaze locked on you, burning with unspoken promises.

"Your Highness," the maid murmured, bobbing a curtsy before retreating.

The moment the door clicked shut, Kit’s hand found yours, her thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. "Meet me at the old stables tonight," she whispered. "I’ve got something to show you."

You squeezed her fingers once, fleeting and fierce. "I always do."

Kit’s smile was worth every risk.