Let's pretend it didn't happen

Warmth.

That was the first thing I felt—pure, absolute warmth. Strong arms curled around me, one beneath my head, the other holding me tight against a body that radiated heat like a living hearth.

It was the kind of comfort I'd forgotten could exist: all the knots in my shoulders untied, my cheek pressed against something solid and alive, my own breath echoing someone else's steady heartbeat.

I nuzzled closer, half asleep, letting myself melt into that steady rhythm, drawn by a scent that was at once sharp and familiar. It was leather and soap and a faint note of fire—earthy, wild, and utterly safe.

I didn't know where I was. I didn't care. The nightmares were gone, replaced by something soft and real.

I breathed in, sighing contentedly, burrowing closer into that perfect cocoon of body heat. No palace. No pirates. No responsibilities. Just this—quiet, soft, and still.

The arm around my waist tightened instinctively as I shifted, pressing me closer, and something in my chest fluttered.

I let myself sink, fingers tracing lazy circles along the wrist holding me. Whoever this was, they could stay forever.

It was at least a few minutes before memory started leaking back—first in slow drips, then in a flood. The Southern Isles. The castle. The single bed. Lyra.

Wait.Lyra.

I froze. For a moment, I hoped I'd misremembered. But no—there was the thrum of muscle under my cheek, the steady rise and fall of a chest that could only belong to one infuriating, impossible, undeniably solid woman. Lyra Skyblade.

My bodyguard. The person I'd spent years alternately despising, fighting, and—lately—almost kissing. The one who'd kissed me, for gods' sake, who'd held me last night when I'd been too sick and shaken to care about pride.

Suddenly, every inch of skin where we touched was on fire. My heart shot into my throat. What had I done? Why had I clung to her in my sleep? And why did it feel so good?

Panic flared, sharp and blinding. My legs tangled with hers, my arms looped around her waist, her chin resting just above my forehead.

We were twisted together like lovers from some tawdry romance novel. Her breath ruffled my hair, her lips parted in soft, oblivious sleep.

Absolutely not. This could not be happening. I was the princess. I did not snuggle. Especially not with her.

I did the only thing I could think of.

With all the force of royal authority and years of pent-up mortification I kicked out, driving my knee sharply between us and shoving Lyra away with both hands.

The reaction was immediate and spectacular. Lyra jerked upright with a yelp, half rolling off the bed, hands scrabbling for a sword that wasn't there.

"What—?!"

I was already scrambling backward, sheets twisting around my legs, hair wild, heart hammering so loud I was sure it echoed down the corridor. "Get out of my bed!" I shrieked. "What are you doing, Skyblade?!"

She blinked, hair mussed, shirt rumpled, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes. "You— You dragged me up here! I was on the floor!"

"Liar!" I snapped, pointing a trembling finger at her. "I woke up and you were— You were all over me— You—"

"I was trying to help!" Lyra protested, hands up as if surrendering to a madwoman. "You were having a nightmare! You pulled me up! You practically— I couldn't breathe!"

I could feel my face burning, but pride refused to let me admit the truth. "Don't flatter yourself. I would never— Never—!"

Lyra tried to untangle herself from the sheets, failed, and nearly fell out of the bed altogether.

She ended up sprawled on the carpet, scowling up at me. "Gods, remind me never to comfort you again," she muttered. "Next time I'll let you thrash around until you hit the floor on your own."

I seized a pillow and flung it at her head with all the royal dignity I could muster. She caught it, grinning in a way that was equal parts smug and sheepish.

"For your information," I snapped, "I sleep alone. I prefer it. I require it. This—" I gestured at the rumpled bed, my own blush, the chaos she left behind "—never happened. Do you understand me?"

Lyra was already standing, brushing dust from her shirt, doing her best not to laugh. "Whatever you say, Princess."

I snatched the blanket tighter, refusing to let my gaze drop below her chin. "And stop looking so pleased with yourself! I could have you hanged for this!"

She rolled her eyes, sauntering toward the washbasin. "You could try. But you'd have to find another bodyguard first."

I glared, but she just splashed water on her face, toweling off with the kind of casual competence that made my jaw ache with irritation.

Was nothing ever awkward for her? Did nothing ever get under her skin?

I tried to compose myself, smoothing my hair and sitting up straight, pretending my pulse wasn't still racing.

I was the picture of royal composure, except for the wild flush on my cheeks, the pounding in my veins, and the mortifying memory of waking up with my face pressed to Lyra's chest.

Lyra finally turned, leaning against the dresser with arms folded, a faint smirk on her lips.

"So," she said. "Breakfast?"

I shot her a look so cold it could have frozen the ocean. "I am never eating breakfast with you again."

She grinned wider, teeth flashing. "Shame. It was just getting fun."

I shoved past her, refusing to meet her eyes as I searched for my dressing gown. "Out. Now. I need to get dressed. And if you even think about making a comment, I'll have the guards haul you off to the dungeons."

She paused at the door, turning just enough that I caught the edge of something softer—an apology, maybe, or regret. "For what it's worth, I didn't mind. Sleeping next to you. Even if you do kick like a mule."

I hurled another pillow, missing her head by inches. She slipped out, laughing, the door closing with a quiet thud.

Left alone, I let myself collapse back onto the mattress, sheets rumpled, heart still thrumming in my chest.

What was wrong with me? Why had I reached for her in my sleep? Why did I miss her warmth the second she was gone?

I closed my eyes, replaying the scene—her arm around my waist, the steady, solid comfort of her body pressed to mine.

The ghost of her lips on my back. The way I'd buried my face against her, needing something I refused to name.

It was a disaster. An absolute, unmitigated disaster. I was the princess. She was my bodyguard. There were rulesr that had kept me safe, kept me sane, kept me from wanting things I could never have.

And yet—my hands trembled as I reached for the hairbrush, my pulse refusing to slow. I could still smell her on my skin, feel her heartbeat echoing in my bones.

No more. Never again.

I dressed quickly, ignoring the mirror, willing the memory to fade. But all day, every time I passed Lyra in the hall, or caught her gaze across a crowded room, or remembered the way her lips had felt against my back—I knew I was lying.

And it was only a matter of time before I did it again.