[Lavinia’s Pov—Comner’s valley—Far Away from Eleania—At the bench, Near the Pond]
. . .
. . .
. . .
Osric stared down at his hand, his brows drawn tight, a mixture of confusion and horror on his face. The once proud, calloused fingers were now hidden beneath a lumpy, uneven ss of bandages that looked more like a strangled turnip than first aid.
And ? I... laughed. Nervously. Way too nervously.
"Haha... ha... you see, I may be a Crown princess," I started, holding my chin high like I had any dignity left, "but that doesn’t an I have to be good at everything. I am human, Osric. And humans, well... we are beautifully flawed."
He slowly lifted his head, eyes eting mine with a stare so dry it could wither crops. Then, very deliberately, he looked back at his hand—the bandage dangling slightly at the edges, as if trying to escape—and said flatly, "Lavi... this looks like a dead fish wrapped in cloth."
My jaw dropped. "Excuse ?!"
"At the very least," he continued, voice maddeningly calm, "you should know how to bandage a hand."
I scoffed, though it ca out more like a nervous puff. "C’mon, Osric... humans are ant to be disasters in sothing, okay? So sing, so paint, so... make bandages look like tragic art installations."
He didn’t even blink. That sa questioning stare burned into , like he was evaluating if I’d lost my mind.
Finally, I slumped like a dying plant, groaning dramatically. "Alright, fine! I admit it. I am a disaster. I am bad with bandages, bad with... life!" Then I straightened suddenly, jabbing a finger at his chest. "But! I am goooood—no, excellent—with everything else. Tell anything, and I’ll do it. Right here. Right now."
He stared, and then his lips quirked, and that smile—oh, that smile—slow and dangerous. He leaned closer, eyes glinting with sothing warm and teasing. "Anything?"
My heart stuttered. My brain scread. My throat went dry. "Y-yes. Anything," I repeated, though it ca out like a squeak.
He leaned in closer, so close I could see the glint of challenge in his eyes. "You won’t go back on your word, right?"
This ti, I straightened, forcing confidence into my voice.
"Of course not. I’m royal—" I let the word linger, heavy and proud, "—and a royal never takes back their word."
And then, with absolutely no sha, he reached forward, gently taking my hand in his. His skin was warm, rough, and steady. He guided it to his face, pressing my palm against his cheek. His voice dropped, smooth and deep.
"Then... hug , Lavi."
. . .
. . .
"W-WHATTTTTTTT?!" My voice cracked so hard birds flew from nearby trees. "H-HUG?!"
He tilted his head, utterly unfazed. "Didn’t you just say you’d do anything?"
I snatched my hand back like it had touched fire, my face heating so much it could’ve boiled water. "I—well—I ant like cooking! Fighting! Boiling water! Diplomatic negotiations! You know, useful things, not—not—"
"Not hugging?" His brow arched, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Interesting priorities for soone who claims to be good at everything."
I pointed an accusing finger at him, words tripping over each other. "You—! Stop smiling like that! Stop smiling all... all handso and smug!"
He blinked, then gave the most absurdly innocent expression. "Handso, Lavi?"
"Gah!" I threw my hands in the air. "This is why I can’t deal with you!"
He laughed—low, warm, and entirely too pleased with himself—and my heart did that ridiculous thing where it skipped like a stone over water. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he opened his arms wide.
"Anyway..." he drawled, eyes glinting like he knew exactly what he was doing to , "I’ll forgive you for the terrible, tragic bandage job—if you hug right now."
My breath caught. "S-stop making excuses, will you?"
But he didn’t stop. No, instead he tilted his head and gave the most pitiful expression, one that could lt an entire kingdom. He looked like a sad, little puppy who had just been abandoned on a rainy night.
"Lavi," he said, voice soft, almost wounded, "I was injured... and so strange lady—who clearly didn’t respect personal boundaries—touched . Left her scent all over my hand."
I flinched, narrowing my eyes at him. "She did?"
Before I could think too much about it, I actually lifted his hand and sniffed like an idiot. Why did I do that? I didn’t know. My brain had stopped functioning.
And that was when he struck.
With a sharp, amused smirk, Osric tugged forward—no, pulled straight into his chest like I weighed nothing. His arms closed around with an ease that sent my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
"There..." His voice was lower now, richer, and a little smug. "Now it feels right."
"W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" My voice ca out shriller than I intended, but my face was already burning like the sun.
I pushed against him, but it was like trying to shove a stone wall. No, worse—a warm, solid, very much alive stone wall.
He only chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against my ear, making shiver.
"Your scent calms , Lavi," he murmured, tightening his hold just slightly. "Can’t we stay like this for a mont? Just... one mont."
And I—traitor that I am—stopped squirming.
His warmth seeped into , wrapping around my nerves, my pulse, and my everything. My hands, hesitant at first, finally rested against his back—firm and strong under my fingers. I could feel his heart, steady and sure, and mine... mine had already packed its bags and left for dead.
"Lavi," he said softly, almost like a secret, "you’re terrible at bandages, but you’re perfect at this."
I wanted to say sothing witty, sothing to break the tension, but my mouth was dry and my brain was soup. So all I managed was a weak, "Y-you’re insufferable..."
His laugh ca again, low and pleased, but his hold didn’t loosen. "And you like it."
I wanted to deny it, to push away, but instead, I smiled—just a little. Maybe because it was true, or maybe because his warmth was too much to resist.
He seed to take that as permission because he shifted closer, the space between us disappearing until I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Then, without warning, his face lowered, and I felt it—soft, fleeting, but enough to make my entire body stiffen—a brush of his lips against the curve of my neck.
My breath hitched.
"This," he said quietly, his voice so warm and intimate it felt like it wrapped around , "is all I needed."
I didn’t move, though every nerve in my body scread at to do sothing. Instead, I forced my voice to stay calm, though it ca out softer than I intended.
"Are you... feeling better now?"
He didn’t lift his head. He just gave the faintest nod, his lips still dangerously close to my skin.
"Yes," he whispered, and there was sothing raw and unguarded in his tone. "Better than I should. I feel... blessed."
My heart was still trying to convince my brain to function when the unmistakable tap of a cane echoed nearby.
"Hoho..." an elderly woman shuffled past, her smile mischievous. "Young love, hmm? Ah, I miss my husband too much."
Heat rushed straight to my ears. Osric finally straightened, but the smirk on his face was unbearable. We pulled apart like two guilty children, and I quickly stood, brushing off my cloak as if it could erase what just happened.
"We... we should go back," I blurted, my voice higher than usual. "If we’re late, Papa might... personally drag ho by the ear."
Osric chuckled—low and infuriatingly amused—and rose from the bench with that unbothered grace of his.
"I’d pay to see that," he said, reaching out to adjust my hood, fingers lingering just a second too long. "But for your sake, let’s not test your father’s temper. Co, my Princess."
And just like that, his hand found mine, warm and steady, as if nothing could shake it.
As we walked away, I realized sothing that made my heart skip a beat.
I... I like Osric too.
No—after that hug, my heart finally admitted what my mind had been denying all along. I love him.
There was no doubt anymore. The way my heart raced, the way jealousy burned when I saw soone else touching him... there was no mistaking it. This man had claid my heart completely.
And that day, I made a decision.
Screw this novel’s female lead. Screw Eleania. Maybe the original Lavinia never got Osric, but I’m not her. I’m Reina Suzuki—and this man holding my hand?
He’s mine.
If I have to snatch the so-called male lead right out of the heroine’s story, then so be it. Because this man is mine. The boy I grew up with. The one I teased. My playmate. My sparring partner. My protector. My shield.
All of it—him—mine.
And I—Lavinia Devereux—don’t share.
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