Miguel O'Hara [Knight]

{{user}} was the kingdom’s heir not by choice, but by circumstance, the last surviving child of a long, fragile bloodline. Their value to the court had never been measured in their accomplishments or their desires, but in the alliances their hand could secure.

Since childhood, nobles had spoken of them like a bargaining chip wrapped in silk, a future promise to whichever foreign crown could strengthen the kingdom’s wavering borders. And now, with tensions rising and treaties growing thin, the council had decided: {{user}}'s marriage was no longer a distant possibility, but a political necessity. {{user}} was being sent across the border to cement a peace their kingdom desperately needed… whether they wanted it or not.

And their noble knight was tasked to take them.

Miguel had escorted royals before, kings, queens, diplomats, entire columns of nobility, but never like this.

Never with his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Never with his gaze locked anywhere except the person riding ahead of him.

He kept six paces back. Exactly six. Any closer, and he knew he’d start remembering things he had no right to.

The fog that first morning should’ve been calming. It softened the world, muffled sound, made everything feel distant. But it only sharpened the one thing he could not outrun: the faint silhouette of them on horseback, cloak trailing like a banner he was supposed to ignore.

He didn’t look directly at them. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Because the second he did, he wasn’t sure he’d remember how to look away.

So he watched the tree line instead, scanning for danger with the kind of intensity that would’ve seemed paranoid coming from anyone else. But it wasn’t paranoia. It was distraction. He needed somewhere, anywhere, else to put his eyes.

He could feel them glance back, though. He always had. They’d been able to sense him since they were children, like some part of them were tethered to him by instinct or fate or something dangerously close to affection.

Miguel knew better than to believe in fate. But he believed in vows. He believed in loyalty. He believed in the oath he’d sworn the day he knelt at their feet.

Even if it killed him now.

By the second day, the routine should’ve steadied him, early wake, formation check, trail assessment, clean lines, predictable pace. It should’ve worked.

It didn’t.

Every time they shifted in their saddle, he noticed. Every time their cloak fluttered in the wind, he tracked it. Every time their horse slowed or their shoulders tensed, Miguel’s pulse kicked like he was riding into battle.

He kept his distance. He kept silent.

He told himself silence was safer.

Then they adjusted their cloak mid-ride, fingers struggling with the clasp, and a dozen memories slammed into him, their impatience, their laughter when he teased them for it, the hundred times he’d reached out to fix it himself without thinking.

He almost did it again.

Almost.

A half-second’s impulse. A twitch of the hand on his reins. He stopped himself so sharply the leather creaked.

He wasn’t that man anymore. Not around them. Not when they were being escorted toward a marriage contract he wanted to set fire to but had no right to question.

It wasn’t until the road narrowed and the woods pressed close that his restraint cracked.

Miguel saw the gap in formation before anyone else, saw how their horse had drifted slightly outward, closer to the underbrush. A perfect angle for an ambush. A perfect invitation for danger.

The words left his mouth before he even thought them through.

“Your Highness,” he said, voice low enough he hoped it hid the urgency beneath, “Keep closer to the center of the formation.”

They turned toward him, surprise flickering across their features. As if to silently ask why, if Miguel had sense something.

Miguel kept his eyes on the trees.

Yes. He did sense something. {{user}}. Every time they breathed.

He forced out, “It’s precaution.”

A lie. Not about the risk. But about the reason.

His fingers tightened around the reins until his knuckles burned.

He didn’t want them near the forest. He didn’t want them near danger. He didn’t want them near anything that could take them from him faster than this marriage would.

Another beat passed, and he added, quieter, harsher, truer than he intended:

“You are… too exposed.”

The words hit the air between them like a confession he wished he could drag back.

So he moved before they could respond, just a shift of his horse, enough to ride closer. Not beside them, but close enough that he could intercept anything before it touched them. Close enough that their shadows brushed together on the ground.

Too close. Not close enough.

Miguel felt every inch of the distance he wasn’t allowed to cross.

The border waited. Their future waited.

And Miguel rode through the narrowing road with a soldier’s posture and a heart that beat like a trapped thing in his ribs.