"When did she arrive?"
"Ten minutes ago, Your Highness. I inford her you were in the middle of sparring."
"Well done. Now tell her I died sparring."
"Pardon?"
"…Never mind. Just give a mont."
Tristan buried his face in his hands.
Doris Redfield.
The unresolved issue from the hunting tournant—or, more accurately, the issue that had started back then—had co knocking on his door.
Two weeks earlier.
After a mont that shouldn't have happened between people with “nothing between them,” she had asked:
"Your Highness, do you… have even a small feeling for ?"
He had answered with cold logic:
"Of course not."
To Tristan, Doris represented an unwanted future. He could treat her with courtesy, dance with her, escort her, and visit her occasionally. But feel sothing for her? Impossible.
Yet the mont he answered, it was as if a stone had rolled loose inside him, and a voice in his head asked:
Really?
"There's no way… is there?"
His body had moved on its own.
He had wanted to touch her soft cheek, to hear her breath from the closest possible distance.
But that wasn’t…
"Well then, I’ll take my leave."
"Wait. Let accompany you."
"No, thank you!"
Doris had stord off, her steps heavy and her anger palpable even from a distance.
And rightly so. He’d given her every reason to be upset. Late warnings were blaring in his mind like alarms.
Tristan had stared after her retreating figure, still dazed, the sa answer looping in his head: “There’s no way. No way.”
But then, as he watched Doris et Rick, her anger lting into a bright smile, and as Rick grinned back at her without hesitation—
The truth cut through his doubts like a blade.
"I… I clearly…"
Lo…
"Your Highness?"
The maid’s voice snapped Tristan out of his thoughts. He hesitated before answering.
"…Prepare to et her. Bring her to my parlor and tell her to wait ten minutes."
"Oh! Ah, I an, yes, Your Highness. Right away!"
The maid's tone betrayed her relief. She was likely tired of coming up with polite excuses to turn Doris away.
“Doris Redfield has such an innocent face that lying to her feels like committing a cri.”
With a sigh, Tristan returned to the bathroom mirror, feeling like a defendant preparing for trial.
His reflection offered no reassurance. Objectively, it was a face that lacked for nothing. But he checked again, just in case. What if there was a blemish he hadn’t noticed?
“No need to shave again. Nothing on my face. Hair… Should I style it? There’s no event today…”
But then, when had he ever gone before Doris without tidying his hair? Would she be unsettled if he appeared too disheveled?
He combed his hair back, then partially let it down, only to sweep it back again as he debated. He was in the middle of this self-imposed crisis when a knock ca at the door.
"Your Highness, Lady Doris Redfield is here."
"Ahem. Tell her I’ll be out shortly."
"Understood."
“Has it already been ten minutes?”
He couldn’t very well keep her waiting any longer.
In the end, Tristan abandoned the hair debate and simply threw on the nearest shirt and cufflinks.
The only detail he paid extra attention to was covering the scar on his neck.
He couldn’t bear to let her worry. The thought of her face falling in shock and concern made him feel like a criminal awaiting sentencing.
"You haven’t waited long, have you, Doris Redfield?"
Tristan stepped into the parlor, his voice calm as he addressed her.
Doris, seated on the sofa, turned her head slightly. The pearl decorations in her tied-up hair caught the light, partially obscuring her face.
“Why is she hiding her face? Is it because she thinks showing it entirely would be too embarrassing for her?”
"Don’t worry, Your Highness. I haven’t waited long."
Was her voice always like this?
It was slightly lower and clearer than he rembered. The kind of voice that would suit reciting poetry aloud.
"…Your Highness? Are you all right?"
"Perfectly fine," Tristan replied firmly, snapping back to reality. He moved to the opposite sofa and sat as nonchalantly as he could manage.
Doris lifted her gaze, her sharp eyes scanning his face, her expression softening into relief.
"Your Highness, you look truly well! I’ve been worried about you since the hunting tournant!"
Ah.
His heart began to pound.
He suddenly felt like the invalid she was here to visit.
Tristan bit his lip nervously, then quickly lifted his teacup to cover the gesture. He prided himself on how graceful the motion appeared—it was practically second nature.
"Your Highness, the tea hasn’t been poured yet."
"…I thought there was dust in the cup."
As he spun the teacup in midair to sell the excuse, Doris accepted her own cup with bright eyes.
"Thank you. I’ll enjoy it."
"It’s just tea. Your interest is probably in the refreshnts."
"Well, yes, but…"
"You don’t deny it?"
A blush crept across Doris’s cheeks.
"Isn’t it obvious by now? From the day I first tried those royal waffles, I’ve been caught."
When the maid brought out a walnut caral pound cake, Doris’s eyes lit up like a puppy spotting its favorite treat. She even glanced at Tristan, as if seeking his permission to start. Naturally, he nodded, and she smiled warmly before delicately cutting into the cake with her fork.
Watching her was enough to make Tristan feel as though his very soul was being nourished.
“Can soone really smile so honestly over sothing so simple?”
Even if he were to feel the sa joy over cake, he would never show it on his face.
…As he proved by hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips behind his teacup.
After five bites of cake, Doris finally looked up, a contented glow on her face.
"Your Highness, are you just going to hold that empty teacup?"
"…I already drank it."
"You drank it rather quickly. By the way, are you truly all right? I imagine your injury hasn’t fully healed yet."
Tristan’s mind swirled with responses like: “I confird my strength at the training grounds this morning. Sparring with a few young knights proved I’m fully recovered. I’m more worried about how your concern might wear on your mind.”
But when he opened his mouth, the words ca out far simpler.
"I’m fine. No issues."
"Are you sure? People who say, ‘I’m fine!’ are often worse off than they let on."
Doris’s eyes betrayed her skepticism.
But he couldn’t say any more. It was impossible.
"Is your business here done, then?"
"Pardon?"
"If confirming my health was your purpose, your business here is concluded, isn’t it?"
"…Technically, yes. Very well."
The warmth in her erald eyes cooled into sothing sharp as she stared at him.
"Your Highness, is there nothing you’re curious about regarding your fiancée after two weeks apart?"
"Nothing."
"…"
He ant it. As long as she was here, smiling, there was nothing else to know.
But as the silence stretched on, Tristan realized he might have answered poorly. He fumbled for a follow-up question.
"Was five pieces of pound cake enough?"
"It was plenty, thank you. I’m glad to see you’re healthy."
"…"
"I didn’t bring a letter today because I was worried you might turn away again, but I’ll bring one next ti. That is, if I’m allowed inside."
With a sharp curtsy that felt more like a challenge than courtesy, Doris rose. Tristan, mindful of etiquette, offered her his arm, but she declined with a polite smile, saying it would look strange to be escorted by the patient she had co to visit.
As her chestnut hair swayed down the hallway, Tristan placed a hand over his chest. His heart, which had raced like mad while she was there, was only now beginning to calm.
“She doesn’t know… does she?”
The answer, very clearly, was no.
That night of the hunting tournant, barely ten minutes after Tristan had coldly told her he felt nothing for her, he had realized the truth.
Tristan Winter Albion was in love with Doris Redfield.
Her every movent, her every smile, made his heart thunder like a drum.
…If only he could have told her ten minutes earlier.
But the mont had passed, and Doris had dutifully returned to her role as his fiancée, without expectations.
“There’s no way I can confess now—not in this situation!”
To avoid coming off as a fickle liar, Tristan reached one conclusion:
“From now on, I’ll show my feelings gradually. Naturally. Let her believe my heart is only now beginning to turn toward her…!”
***
I want to slap Tristan on the back three tis.
I want to leave him in Maronnier Park, scatter rice around him, and let the pigeons attack.
“You idiot! Do you really think I ca here just to check on your health? Huh? Or do you think I ca here just for pound cake?”
Who makes soone wait ten minutes and then sends them away after ten minutes?!
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