"What are you doing there? Are you watching to make sure I don't throw off the blankets and sneak out again?"
As I debated whether to open my eyes, Tristan spoke.
"I received the handkerchief you prepared. You don't need to worry about it anymore."
"What?"
My eyes shot open. How could I not worry!
"You received it? How?"
"I picked it up."
"…Wait a moment. Don't tell me you got hurt while looking for my gift?"
Startled, I tried to sit up abruptly, but his finger, suddenly close to my forehead, stopped me, and I fell back onto the pillow. Tristan shook his head.
"No."
"Really?"
"What do you take me for? If I got injured because of you, I would've made sure you paid for it somehow."
Well, alright then.
Having said his piece, Tristan moved away from my bed. Still, even as he distanced himself, he remained within the infirmary. A single empty bed separated us.
Tristan, his expression hidden from view, spoke again.
"The letter, however, was unreadable. The ink was smudged from being soaked."
"You… you found the letter too?"
"It was next to the handkerchief."
A mix of embarrassment and relief surged through me.
The letter I had written so effortlessly among the ladies now felt unbearably mortifying.
Even though it was full of polite formalities, I was oddly relieved it was illegible.
"You can take your time rewriting it."
"…What?"
I bolted upright, utterly startled.
"Are you saying you want me to rewrite the letter?"
"You understood perfectly, yet you're asking again."
"But that letter was for the hunting competition. By the time I rewrite it, the event will already be over…"
"I don't care."
After a moment of hesitation, I asked cautiously, "Do you… really want my letter that badly?"
"Of course not," Tristan declared firmly.
Hey!
"I just thought it was very like you," he added. "Who thinks of writing a letter during a hunting competition? It's like you're a woman anxiously sending her husband off to the battlefield."
I couldn't tell if it was a compliment or an insult.
Well, I guess there's no harm in rewriting it… but still, it's embarrassing.
"If you don't want to write it, you could just tell me now—"
"I forgot everything I wrote!"
"I'm looking forward to hearing an even more refined version, then."
"…Sigh."
Why did I dig my own grave?
If I had just given him the handkerchief and nothing else, none of this would've happened.
What does he even expect from me?
As I fell silent, contemplating what to write in the new letter, Tristan didn't press me further.
"I'll turn off the lights now."
With a flick of his fingers, he snuffed out the candle flame.
Only a lantern hung at the infirmary entrance remained lit, its glow softened by thick curtains. Even if I opened my eyes, I would only see silhouettes now.
The faint creak of the bed suggested Tristan had finally laid down.
I half-expected him to scold me about resting again, but he remained silent.
All I could hear now was his breathing—slow, irregular, and deep.
'Is he sick?'
It sounded strained, like the labored breaths of someone tense.
Should I ask if he's alright?
No. If I did, we'd probably just end up bickering again, raising both our blood pressures.
'Idiot Tristan.'
Why did you bother looking for my gift? It wasn't even anything special.
'…Though I'm the bigger fool.'
I should've prepared the gift earlier. That way, there'd be no need for an embarrassing letter, and Tristan wouldn't have had to go through so much trouble.
'But did he really get hurt looking for my gift?'
In the original story, he'd gone out for a late-night hunt to humble Arthur and returned at dawn covered in mud.
If he slipped during that, it wouldn't be strange…
But something doesn't feel right. My gut says no, and my logic follows.
Wasn't Tristan busy working earlier during the time he would've been hunting?
What were you really doing, Tristan?
While I puzzled over it, I noticed his breathing had become even and steady.
Is he asleep?
Feeling like a spy, I cautiously turned my head.
On the farthest bed, the dim light outlined his silhouette. His closed eyes were visible from the faint shimmer of his lashes.
Why does even his silhouette look so handsome?
And the worst part is, he knows how valuable his face is.
'If this guy were a Roman emperor, he'd issue commemorative coins every year with his profile stamped on them.'
Honestly, even if I hated him, I'd probably keep one or two just to have them.
Thinking such nonsense, I slowly got up.
I pushed the blanket aside and carefully swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Tristan remained still, his breathing steady.
'He's definitely asleep.'
This is my chance to leave. I've stayed in the infirmary long enough for just a minor injury.
'And if my sister finds out I've been using the royal infirmary, who knows what will happen.'
I'd better head to the banquet hall and make an appearance.
With mounting urgency, my footsteps quickened.
But instead of heading for the infirmary's exit, I found myself standing before Tristan's bed.
I stood by his bed, quietly gazing down at him.
Stepping out of the backlight, I could finally make out his face clearly, and the strength his silhouette had projected earlier seemed softened.
'He still looks strong… but also exhausted.'
Like someone who finally got to rest after working all day and only because of an injury.
Sure, it made sense to be tired after hunting all day. But there's a stark difference between the face of someone who's tired from playing and someone who's tired from working.
'It's like the look librarians have during the annual book reorganization.'
Every year, the library clears out old books, reorganizes the archives, and processes new ones. Easy to say, but in practice, it's a grueling mix of physical and mental labor—clearing storage, moving books, attaching RFID stickers, registering data into the system, shelving books, and conducting inventory checks.
People who take brief breaks during that kind of work tend to have one thing in common: 'See? Even while sleeping, his brow is furrowed.'
A lingering trace of unresolved worries.
'Tristan, in the original story, you lived doing whatever you wanted. But the Tristan in front of me… why do you have so many concerns?'
What kind of person are you, really?
My curiosity grew. I'd always thought a man who wrestles with his thoughts is preferable to one without any, but now that I've realized you think more deeply than I expected…
I kind of want to pat your head.
I'd only just reached that thought when—
The hair that I'd tucked behind my ear slipped loose, and I realized that without thinking, I'd leaned closer to Tristan.
At almost the exact same moment—
Tristan's eyes snapped open as he spoke.
"I don't know what you're staring at, but is it amusing?"
"Ahhh!"
I jumped back in shock, bumping into the infirmary screen behind me and failing to retreat very far.
Meanwhile, Tristan clicked his tongue and sat up halfway.
"Is a person's defenseless state that entertaining to you?"
"No! It's not entertaining at all!"
"Strange, considering how long you were staring."
"It wasn't that long! And wait—how long have you been awake?"
"From the beginning."
"…What?"
"There wasn't a physician here, so I thought one of us should stay alert."
"…"
"Well, if you're bored, feel free to leave first. I figured you'd be getting hungry by now."
Just when he was making sense, he had to say that!
But I couldn't argue. I was hungry.
I quickly stepped away from the bed, worried my stomach might growl.
"Ahem. I'm perfectly fine now, so I'll be taking my leave. I'll ask a maid to bring you something to eat."
"Alright. But…"
I had a bad feeling about what he was going to say, so I tried to escape as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, his question was faster than my exit.
"Why were you looking at my face earlier?"
"…"
"It felt like I was being observed, as though you were studying a fever patient. Even though my injury is on my shoulder."
"Well…"
I had no excuse.
Because I didn't even know why myself!
His breathing had been steady and calm. I could have just left the infirmary then and there, sparing myself this awkwardness.
But instead, I stood there, staring at him and overthinking.
"I… I was just…"
My face flushed slightly.
No, this won't do! I need to come up with some kind of excuse! The more I hesitate, the stranger this gets!
It was the worst.
If I wasn't mistaken, even Tristan's face now held a hint of bewilderment during this inappropriate silence.
"Well?" His tone pushed.
"I, um…"
In this painfully awkward moment, it was Tristan who broke the silence first.
With one corner of his mouth quirking up, he spoke in that typical, insufferable way of his.
"Is it some kind of sleep habit?"
"What?"
"You're usually so rational, but you couldn't explain this. So I wondered if it was some unconscious habit of yours."
"It's not—"
"Ah, so it's an unknown quirk. Even the most graceful lady in society has bad habits, it seems. I imagine anyone would be surprised to learn that."
Every word dripped with condescension.
It was irritating, but also oddly reassuring to see him acting like his usual self again.
Still, it wasn't even a bad habit worth making such a big deal over!
Before I knew it, my voice rose.
"Don't worry. The only person who'll notice this habit in my bedroom is you, Your Highness!"
…Right after I said it, I fully expected him to laugh.
After all, Tristan didn't know yet that we were going to get married.
But to my surprise, he stayed silent.
It wasn't indifference. His unusually wide eyes were fixed on me, trembling faintly. His parted lips didn't close.
Oh no. Did I just say something completely reckless?
"I-I'll ask a maid to bring you something to eat!"
I added hastily before bolting out of the infirmary.
D@mn it. D@mn it!
I've told so many people without hesitation, "I'm going to marry His Highness!"
So why does it feel so mortifying to say it to him?