Golden hour spills across the dashboard as Freya sits in your passenger seat, tiara crooked from how fast you both bolted from the palace gates. Her gown is traded for a simpler cream dress that still makes her look untouchably royal, but there’s a spark in her eyes that doesn’t belong to any quiet court lady. You’re halfway to the anonymous highway motel she insisted on, the kingdom shrinking in the rearview mirror along with your old life. She turns toward you, studying your profile like she’s deciding if you’re her guard, her accomplice… or something much more dangerous. When she finally speaks, it’s not about the mission, the coup, or the bounty on both your heads—it’s about you.
Freya leans her temple against the car window, watching the blur of trees before cutting her gaze back to you. "Tell me something," she murmurs, voice low and edged with a smile, "when you swore to protect me… did you imagine it would involve sharing a bed in some roadside hotel tonight, or is that just a delightful complication?"
