Mary sighs blissfully, her fingers instinctively tracing lazy circles on her husband's chest.

She's nestled comfortably in Francis' arms, his warm body pressing against hers. Still, she tries to shift impossibly closer to him, but she fears she'll wake him up.

On second thought, she actually wants him to wake up, and see the way he runs his hand through his beautiful, blonde curls, the way his ocean-deep blue eyes light up when he catches sight of her, and the way he groggily greets her after rising from a deep slumber.

She's been up for less than ten minutes and she misses talking to him already. She decides to watch him sleep until he wakes up eventually. After all, she never tires of looking at him - really looking at him - awake or not.

He looks so peaceful when he's asleep, the tension and exhaustion from the previous day all gone.

Sometimes, she wishes he isn't King. Not because he's failing terribly at it, but rather he has a tendency to overexert himself when fulfilling his royal duties, and it greatly worries her.

It's one of the many reasons why she usually waits up for him (Other reasons include: she wants to go to bed with him, and to regale him with vivid accounts of her day. They don't discuss politics in the morning and at night, and those times are undoubtedly her favourite part of her day.), even as the hours tick by and she realises he hasn't returned. When he finally does, she greets him warmly and occasionally rewards him with a back massage.

This soon becomes a routine for them, and she doesn't complain.

Her husband's duties as the King are seemingly endless: attending countless meetings with the nobles, the many festivities here at court, and so on. He always requests for her presence during their meetings, albeit rather unnecessary (or so the nobles claim), and she is more than willing to stay by his side, to share his burdens and support him not just as his Queen, but as his wife.

She also realises she's more political savvy than she believed herself to be, and she takes full advantage of it when they come up with military strategies, battle routes, et cetera.

Not to mention, their relationship has never been easy, to say the least.

Sure, they are married, but they are also the King and Queen.

Making political decisions, particularly on Francis' part, is always a tough call. She knows he loves her, and always wants what's best for her. However, compromises must be made when the interests of their countries - France and Scotland - may not always coincide.

Regretfully, it took her some time to realise how much it hurt him when he couldn't accommodate her requests, despite his best capacity. Rejecting her wishes, even in the slightest, still pains him more than she can comprehend.

Still, she hates herself for getting frustrated and livid at him sometimes when he priorities his country over hers - god forbid the King of France to do so - and deep down, she doesn't blame him.

How can she?

More than that, she has always seen Francis as the only constant in her life, even when everything tried to drive a wedge between them. She in turn then willed herself to be stronger for their union, and above all, their unwavering love for each other.

After all, they are so much more than royalty.

They love each other, and always will. She is certain she will never be able to express the gratitude she has for their love in words. What she shares with Francis is something that one chooses not to put in words, simply because they aren't enough.

And when it comes to Francis, it's never enough.

More than anything, she wants to be with him always, without having to bear a single moment of separation from him ever again.

She thinks about how she would gladly live a thousand lifetimes - if it meant she and Francis would always find their way to each other, one way or another. Her breath catches as she pictures them as ordinary folk - a blacksmith and a dairymaid, perhaps - raising a family in a quiet village somewhere.

The image of them seems rather familiar, and real, as if she had dreamt of it before.

It's a beautiful story. It's perfect. She could happily live with that ending.

Not the other ending.

Relief floods her as she recalls what transpired just days ago.

Francis laid lifelessly on their bed, with a fragility that violently broke her into tears there and then.

"I love you."

He uttered those three words that first shocked and thrilled her, back when she went to his rooms in desperate need to seek solace in his company, after - what seems like a lifetime ago - Count Vincent's attempted attack on her.

"No, please, don't say that. Don't say goodbye," she begged with tears in her eyes, gripping on his hard like a lifeline.

"Stay with me. Stay with me," she repeated, pretending that it could buy him some time.

Too soon.

With each passing moment, she felt her heart sink deeper, and deeper. She knew this day would come, but it's completely futile in preparing her for his eventual demise.

After Francis admitted his illness had returned months ago, she tried to imagine a life without him - something she had hoped would never cross her mind - and only saw darkness.

To her, it amounts to nothing.

What did it matter anyway, when fate was already catching up to them?

"It's such a beautiful dream," he murmured suddenly, gazing up at her with certainty and fondness in his eyes.

…

"No, Francis, don't leave me! Not yet. Not yet! Come back to me, Francis!"

—

(Miraculously, he came back to her, after - the worst moment of her life - being dead. Now, he was alive, his fingers gently caressing her cheek, and smudging her tears. Feeling his touch on her skin, she sobbed harder, and her entire body shook uncontrollably with gratitude and pure joy.)

"Mary…"

I thought I had lost you.

"You're alive! You came back to me."

Tears spilled messily from her face.

You're here. You're really here.

She silently thanked god, refusing to take her eyes off him.

—

She shudders slightly, realising how everything was almost taken away from her on that fateful day.

Her marriage. Her family. Herlife.

"Morning."

She glances up to see him shifting in bed, his eyes fluttering open.

Part of her forces herself to focus on how much she wants to lose herself in them.

Almost instantly, he recognises the look on her face, and his blue eyes widen in concern.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

He sits up now, patiently waiting for her answer.

With that, Mary offers him a wistful smile, and shakes her head. "It's just… I-I can't believe I almost lost you. You were dead, Francis. Your hand went limp in mine. Before Delphine saved you, I thought I lost you. In that moment, I swear, I-I really thought I died with you. I mean it. If you leftme…"she trails off, her voice all choked up.

She doesn't want to say the words. They sound worse, so much more terrible, when spoken aloud. She can tell he's already beating himself up, seeing her in pain because of him. It feels like a punch to the gut.

She's still reeling from the onslaught of emotions, and she desperately wants to forget about the whole purgatory.

His thumb touches her chin then, so that her gaze meets his. He presses his lips to her forehead and tells her, "I'm here now, Mary, and that's all that matters. I won't leave you."

She wants his word, despite knowing that he means it.

"You promise?" she strokes his cheek.

He chuckles softly, "Yes, I promise."

Her heart swells, and ponders about how his eyes can convey so much love for her. It renders her breathless.

Smiling at him, she props herself up on one elbow.

"So, I suppose now that we're in Paris, we finally have all the time to ourselves. For now, at least," she changes the subject, feeling lighter with each breath.

He nods, "Well, we certainly can stay here longer, if you'd like. To be honest with you, I don't want to go back to court, either."

She can't stop staring at him.

It's not like she hasn't already memorised every minute detail of his precious face.

And yet.

His gaze narrows to her lips, and she knows, from experience, that he wants to kiss her.

She decides to tease him and continues, "I felt the same way when we were on our honeymoon, do you remember? There are so many magical moments that I want to revisit with you here."

Mary twirls a few strands of his golden soft curls around her fingers.

She smiles, "Francis, I want you all to myself. Just the two of us, dancing under the stars under the Louvre, this magnificent palace, which is a wonderful idea, if I may add."

"I'm all yours," he affirms, slowly shifting their bodies so that he's on top of her.

Burying his face in her dark hair, he plants a trail of kisses from the sensitive spot behind her ear to the graceful curve of her neck. She gasps, her fingertips digging into the flesh on his back.

Long ago, she lost count of the number of times he's touched her like that.

He pushes her back on the bed, taking his sweet time savouring the taste of the vulnerable skin on her neck. It's sweet torture, and it satisfies her so much she mewls against him. Soon, she becomes ever so impatient, silently begging him to make her come undone by touching her there.

Instead, he presses wet kisses her neck, and captures her lips again. She responds eagerly, her tongue pushing into his mouth. She feels his hands roam over her body, which only contributes to her growing impatience, a burning desire to touch every inch of his body.

He breaks the kiss suddenly and pauses.

"I've missed this."

She knows what he means. In the days following the return of his illness, their love-making wasn't quite the same. There were times when it simply became too exhausting for him to go on. For her, it was too emotionally draining. Trepidation crept up on her, instilling the fear that this would be their last.

Their love-making used to be vigorous, as she told him once a long time ago.

Now, it feels so right.

"Vigorous," he echoes her thoughts, his eyes full of mirth.

Feeling brave, she decides to entice him further, biting her lip provocatively.

The intensity of his gaze deepens, and his eyes turns a darker shade of blue.

God, yes.

She grins, waiting in anticipation of the weight of him pressing her harder into the bed.

She doesn't remember much after that.

—

Two hours later, Mary slips out of bed, wrapping herself in a robe.

"I wish you didn't bother," Francis smirks.

"Francis, you can't expect me to walk around naked every morning," she shoots a childish glare at him, then sends him a wink, "You know, I don't always have to cater to your many desires."

He still looks quite pleased with the sight before him, though.

Her eyes twinkle in excitement, "That reminds me, don't you think you ought to get out of bed already? We have some dancing under the stars to do."

She loves seeing his lips slightly curl upwards whenever she calls him that. Terms of endearment for him always rolls off her tongue so easily.

She probably knows why.

Since her stay with the nannies, and even after she first returned to court, she used to daydream about she and Francis getting married, and them addressing each other as 'Husband and Wife'. Truthfully, it was silly, but she had been thrilled about the prospect of sharing a married life with him - her childhood best friend, her companion, her lover.

You are my most prized possession.

You are my home.

"No, I want my wife to come back to bed," he pouts, grabbing a bunch of feather pillows and covering his face with them.

"I won't move an inch until you do," he insists, his voice muffled by the feather pillows on his face.

She rolls her eyes at him. "You're such a child!" she teasingly admonishes him.

She can't help but notice a blob of blonde curls among the huddled pillows, and it's enough to make her burst into laughter.

Catching her off-guard, he hurriedly grabs one of the pillows and hurls it at her.

Much to her chagrin, it lands right smack on her face.

Oh, he did not.

He gulps.

Her eyes are gleaming with mischief now. She quickly retrieves the pillow from the ground, and tackles him on the bed with it, determined to prove to him that she's definitely not a Queen to be messed with.

"Mary, stop!" he exclaims, his hands getting all defensive before her.

With that, she stares at him, mock affronted.

"What? You started it!" she accuses him, yet wearing the biggest, child-like smile on her face.

Francis grabs two pillows in his hands and tries to defend himself, albeit rather helplessly, from her relentless pillow attacks.

They're both standing on the bed now, attacking each other with feather pillows in their hands - except the feathers have inevitably fallen out of the pillows, swaying as they fall to the ground.

The pleasant sight strikes a chord in them almost instantly.

Feathers falling from nowhere.

Don't you remember when we were children?

I did. I remembered.

Laughter fills the air as she looks bemusedly at him, registering the fact that they, the King and Queen of France, are currently engaged in a heated pillow fight.

Finally, Mary manages to catch him off-guard and pushes him down to the bed with half-filled feather pillows.

"Ha, I got you! I win," she declares proudly, revelling in her triumphant success.

Raising his hands in complete surrender, he chuckles and adjusts himself comfortably on the bed.

"Alright, I give up."

She can't remember the last time she was this happy, laughing together with Francis, just like when they were children.

She giggles and rests her arms on his chest, while gazing at him in close proximity.

"You're incorrigible, you know that?"

"But you love me anyway."

With that, she raises an eyebrow at him playfully.

"Mm, you're suddenly very sure of yourself," she murmurs, tracing her fingers along his lips.

He's tugging at her robe now, the familiar signs of arousal starting to make themselves known on his body. He can feel her breath on his skin, her delicate fingertips blazing a trail of fire along his cheek, and the satisfying weight of her body on his.

She swears they're never going to get out of bed.

"I am," a breathy, hushed whisper escapes his lips. He stares at her, searching her eyes for any hint of hesitation or uncertainty. There is none.

She demands with her deep brown eyes, "Yes."

—

"Which dress should I wear tonight?" she asks him, facing a myriad of exquisite dresses in the wardrobe.

Francis is sitting on the edge of the bed, finally wrapped in his robe.

"You look beautiful in every colour, my love."

With that, her cheeks redden and she looks down self-consciously. "Thank you," she returns bashfully, as if his compliments about her beauty are rare.

"Well, if I had to choose, this one would be perfect," he suggests, gesturing towards a particular red dress. It was one of the few dresses that she had worn on the day she broke the news to him that she was pregnant.

She takes a moment to remember how her ladies had commented that the bold red colour complemented the snowy-white paleness of her skin very well. Later that day, Francis had complimented her, "… You are uncommonly desirable." He had gazed at her like she was the loveliest thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

She takes out the red dress and fingers the silky material of it.

"I love it."

He's behind her now, wrapping his arms around her waist, and holding her tight against his chest. She instantly relaxes in his arms, tilting her head slightly to lean on his shoulder. It occurs to her that she wants to stay in this perfect moment of stillness forever.

"I love you," he tells her, nibbling gently at her earlobe.

Damn him. He knows what he does to her.

"Francis," she moans softly, her eyes fluttering closed at the thought of what's to come.

He then proceeds to sprinkle kisses along her neck, unable to pull his lips away from her skin. A small giggle escapes her lips, and she turns around to face him. "Perhaps we should save it for later. After the dance. We will have plenty of time for that…" she trails off, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

"For what?" he feigns ignorance, and she just has to smack him lightly on the chest right then.

"You know, what we both want to do," she whispers with heavy innuendo, licking her lips.

She's pleased when he lets out a groan in response, his eyes flickering down to her lips.

She knows he is trying hard not to kiss her, yet she allows her lips to ghost over his, holding him captive in her gaze.

"I should call for my servants to help me get dressed," she suddenly announces, breaking her gaze, and spinning around to reach for the red dress on the bed.

"No, let me do it," he offers.

With that, she raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you forgotten that you're only experienced in untying my corsets?" she teases him, laughter warming her belly.

"Which makes it only reasonable that I learn to be experienced in tying them as well," he counters, putting on his trousers. "Besides, my wife will certainly be pleased," he adds, winking at her.

"Well, I suppose you can try," she concedes flirtatiously.

She feels so at ease with him here, just the two of them teasing each other and flirting like the teenage lovers they are. The endless troubles and worries - politics - she had back at court seem so far away now, buried in the dark, dusty corners of her mind.

After putting on her skirt and petticoat (with Francis' help, he insisted), she reaches for her corset on the lush carpet.

"This is such a pain to wear," she laments simply, rolling her eyes in a way that is probably deemed unfitting of a Queen. Not that Francis cares. Rather, he finds her to be inexplicably captivating when she does that.

He grabs ahold of the strings behind her back once she has adjusted the corset on her, and pauses.

There's just one tiny problem: he has absolutely no idea where to begin.

"Is everything alright?" she inquires, suppressing a series of giggles, and failing miserably at it.

"Mm-hmm, this is more complicated than I thought," he says wryly, amused with his inexperience.

She imagines the baffled look on his face, and it sends her into a fit of laughter at once.

She can feel his hands carefully tugging at, and attempting to tie the strings of her corset in the correct manner. After a few tries, he successfully grasps the proper way to do it, and begins tying the strings with deft fingers. To her surprise, he manages to tighten them with the right amount of force, and her corset is firmly held up on her chest.

"Done," he declares, and she swears she can hear the pride in his voice.

She spins around and knots her arms around his neck, thanking him sweetly.

"Perhaps you should do up my corsets from now on, darling. Then I won't need to call for my servants at all," she continues.

He lowers his voice, "I now realise it takes much more effort to do up one of your corsets than it does to undo one."

"Well, you will get better with practice. I'm actually impressed you got it right fairly quickly, given it's your first time."

"So am I."

She realises she wants nothing more than to kiss him, so she kisses him full on the mouth. She tugs at his black doublet and pulls him closer, her tongue both warm and seeking on his lips. "Mary," he sighs, his hands gripping her hips lightly.

She runs one hand through his perfect blonde curls, guiding him back to her lips urgently. She almost wishes they aren't already clothed. He walks her backwards until her back gently hits the wall. Burying his face in her hair, he slowly breathes in the smell of her. Just Mary.

He finds the sensitive spot behind her ear, and kisses it, taking much delight in how she gasps his name in the way only he can hear, and only for him. Mary feels herself unravelling completely before him. She grows impatient as she cups his cheeks, delving her tongue into his mouth with much fervour. He responds eagerly to the kiss, and tightens his grip on her hips, which thrills her.

She thinks about how being with Francis, ever since their honeymoon, has made her so improperly wanton - not that she's complaining. Her hands begin to run down his back just as they hear three distinct knocks on the door.

They spring apart immediately. Mary frantically adjusts her corset, and attempts to smoothen her hair, while Francis shoots her a look of amusement. In mere seconds, they are no longer alone.

"Your Majesties," one of Mary's servants, Clara, interrupts them.

She pauses abruptly, noticing from their slightly dishevelled appearance that something private was happening between the two royals just moments before.

She manages a smile and continues, "Sorry for the intrusion, Your Majesties, but dinner is ready."

"Ah yes, dinner. Thank you, Clara. We will be down shortly," Mary nods in acknowledgement.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Clara gives them a slight bow, and exits the room quickly.

Mary takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. "Dinner sounds lovely," she says, reaching up, and petting the unkempt blonde curls adorning his head. Maintaining a serious look, she tells him, "We really should go. Let's not get too carried away."

He tilts his head at her, as if to argue.

"This is ridiculous."

"Francis!"

—

The banquet hall in the Louvre looks akin to the one in French Court, if not only more exquisite and grandiose. Francis and Mary admired the sheer beauty of their surroundings - the intricate, nuanced patterns on the palace's ceiling and walls, the impressive, sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and the vast palace ballroom.

They made their way to the ballroom, her excitement evident in both her expression and gestures. "Oh, Francis." she breathes, spinning around in her red dress, her arms spread out.

She admires the ballroom with rapture, "It's just as beautiful as I remembered."

He loves seeing how happy and carefree she is at this moment. It fills his heart with such incomparable joy that he thought he had lost for good. Pulling him out of his thoughts, his wife drags him back to the banquet hall.

"I'm starving," she remarks. Before she can make her way to the other end of the table, he tugs gently at her arm.

"Come here, sit with me."

He notices the guards and servants in the hall sharing a look of surprise. It's rather uncommon for a King to invite his Queen to sit beside him while having their meals, to say the least.

He pulls the chair out slowly, beckoning her to take a seat. "Thank you," she smiles at him. Settling down, she reaches for his hand and entwines her fingers with his. "What are you doing?" he smiles, knowing the answer but wanting her to say it nonetheless.

Avoiding his gaze, she continues playing with his fingers. "Nothing. I just want to touch you," she admits shyly, stroking her thumb over his palm again and again. Without a word, he presses a quick kiss to her forehead, offering a silent prayer to the gods, thankful for the company of his wife.

"Are those oranges from Nice?" Mary gapes in astonishment, spotting the big fresh slices of the extravagantoranges neatly arranged in rows of ten on a silver plate.

"I had them specially arranged to be brought over here, and had the servants to remove the skins. I know how much you enjoy them."

"How much we enjoy them," she rectified, already grabbing one from the basket and stuffing it in her mouth, like the impatient girl she is. He stifles a laugh, trying not to focus on how ridiculously adorable she looks while savouring those oranges.

"Mmm…" she trails off, regarding him with a satisfied grin.

Her eyes light up, seeming to recall a memory.

"Do you remember the time you had six orange slices in your mouth when we had a picnic on the castle grounds? That was quite memorable, don't you think?" she teases, giggling at the silly image of him - orange juice dripping from his mouth.

"In my defence, it was your idea. You were the one who challenged me to eat five orange slices all at once!" he retorts, shaking his head in disbelief, "And yes, I admit I wanted to impress you, so I chose to eat six orange slices instead."

"Well, I was impressed. And I love you for that," she smiles, her eyes glinting with wonder and sincerity.

She gets up suddenly, shifting from her seat to Francis' lap. She adjusts herself comfortably, and he feels her body all warm against his. He stares at her in complete awe, attempting to mask his palpable desire to touch her everywhere.

He's pleased when Mary grabs another orange slice and offers to feed it to him. She pops one in his mouth with an enchanting smile, and it bursts into sweetness in his mouth. It reminds him he is alive, and blessed to relish the simple things in his life.

They continue to feed each other oranges. Juice drips messily from Mary's mouth and he laughs, wiping it with his thumb.

He remembers how she fed him his weeds, and even rewarded him with a kiss when he complied. He remembers her attentive care and remarkable patience with him. He remembers her exact words which extinguished any doubt he had that she loves him.

"I would go to any length, Francis. Any lengths."

His expression softens. Stroking the dark, wavy locks of her hair, he regards her with a profound appreciation and fondness.

"Francis, thank you. For everything," she breaks the silence, a faint smile growing on her lips.

They sit like this for a long while.

—

She gapes in amazement.

This has to be magic.

Mesmerised by hundreds of little shining stars aligning in the night sky, she ponders if there's anything - anything at all - that can possibly be more beautiful than this.

She glances over her shoulder and notices the same expression on Francis' face. He is standing there, his feet rooted to the ground, and his blue eyes widening in wonder. Months ago, it would have seemed implausible for them to return here.

She's grateful for this trip, for they can take some respite from their hectic lives at court. And the Louvre Palace certainly does not disappoint. However, her heart pangs in disappointment, as she's well aware that they'll have to return to court eventually. Regardless, she is determined to make the most of their time here.

She turns around to face her husband, and smooths her thumb over the collar of his shirt. Ever since his near-brush with death, Mary has felt the compelling urge to touch him, at every chance she gets, as if to remind herself he's real, and he's still by her side.

She recalls their boating session in the morning, after which she confessed that she never wants to leave him. And more.

You are my home.

She uttered those very words with absolute clarity.

Upon registering her words, his face only reinforced the truth in her eyes.

She doesn't tell him about the (many) sleepless nights prior to his imminent "death". At that time, she decided she didn't want to cause him any unnecessary worry that might worsen his illness. She simply couldn't risk it.

On some nights, she would be jolted awake by nightmarish visions of Francis' fate.

After waking up in cold sweat, she would find herself reaching out to her side in panic. Realising that he's sleeping soundly next to her, and most importantly alive, she would be overwhelmed with instant relief.

Once, in a nightmare, she had sworn she heard Francis coughing and wheezing in the distance. To her horror, she was trapped in a dark room with no doors. The deafening sounds of her worst nightmare grew ominously louder, until she knew with gripping fear that he was dying.

But she could do nothing, nothing to save him.

She screamed into the darkness and silently begged for it to drown out the sounds.

At that moment, she woke up panting hard, and started sobbing uncontrollably. Almost instinctively, she felt Francis' arms wrap around her tightly - with whatever little strength he had left - and he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Burying her face into his chest, she held onto him for support, her breathing stabilising and her sobs becoming hushed.

She knows, more than anything, she will never love anyone the way she loves Francis Valois.

"What are you thinking about?" he interrupts her thoughts.

She snaps back to reality and realises her thumb is now smoothing over his black doublet.

"You," she stresses the word and it paints her cheeks a tint of red, "And how utterly handsome you look in this particular black doublet."

"No, you are truly a sight to behold, my Queen."

She laughs at his compliment, her whole countenance radiating with happiness.

Francis signals for the musicians to start playing their instruments. A melodious tune filled the air. Unlike their previous dance, the music is nowhere near melancholic. There is no hint of goodbye.

"May I?" he gives a slight bow, then offers her his hand.

She returns the bow and takes his hand.

"I thought you'd never ask," she teases, lifting his hand to her lips, and placing a lingering kiss on his palm.

They begin to circle each other slowly, their palms pressed together.

Having danced this routine together more than they can count, it's no surprise their movement is light and precise.

Francis spins her around by the arm effortlessly, his eyes locked on hers.

"I feel as though all the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders, like I don't have to be Queen for awhile. I mean, we've danced many times before, but not like this. Now it's just us, and well, this is different," she blurts out, her voice quiet and low.

He registers the subtle change of tone in her voice.

"I suppose this is us being just a boy and a girl, then." he replies with a wink, pausing to remember the wide-eyed girl who flirtatiously gave him permission to kiss her.

She stares at the stars, a comfortable silence washing over them.

"Just a boy and a girl." she repeats after a few beats, the words tasting slightly foreign on her tongue, for they have barely survived the passage of time.

"You remember," she says in a tiny voice, as if to herself.

He grabs her firmly by the waist and lifts her in a way that exhilarates her, before bringing her back to the ground.

"Of course. I love hearing you speak like that - so carefree and animated. Your candour is refreshing as well. I could listen to you speak for hours, my love. I have spent most of my mornings lying in bed with you, and you never fail to brighten up my day, regardless of how dreadful and daunting my duties are ahead. Mary, I want to spend all of my mornings with you, for the rest of my life."

Blinking back her tears, she barely manages, "Francis…"

With that, he steals a kiss from her and continues to do so, despite her wordless protests with her eyes.

Her mouth hurts from smiling too much, though.

Francis cradles her head with one hand as he dips her, the other holding her hand. Their noses nuzzle for a brief moment and she feels breathless.

Not from exhaustion, but the fact that her lips are just a few inches away from his.

She feels desire stirring low in her stomach as they spin around once more, him leading her by the hand.

Her husband encircles his arms around her and pulls her closer. It feels like home. She rests her hands on his chest. He buries his head into her neck and sighs, murmuring something about how nice she smells. His breath on her neck tickles her, and she lets out a giggle.

She hears the music fading in the background, sensing it is coming to an end.

"I love you."

She beats herself up inside. The words don't come as easily to her. For as long as she can remember, it's always been Francis who showers her with heartfelt and sincere declarations of love. On the other hand, she is always struggling to find the right words to fully convey the love she feels for him. Guilt creeps in as it occurs to her that she doesn't show Francis how much she appreciates him. And she appreciates him more than anything in her life.

She dismisses the thought and leans in to kiss him. Although feigning nonchalance isn't always her strong suit, she does a decent job at appearing to be blithely unaware of their company (numerous guards and musicians, it's no big deal.).

He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing her moist lips and his hands starting to travel to inappropriate places down her body.

He pulls back suddenly, and she frowns slightly in disappointment. However, she can't help but let out a bubble of laughter at the incredulous way the musicians and guards are all avoiding their gaze, acting all undisturbed and oblivious.

"You may go now. Thank you for the splendid music," Francis kindly gestures to the musicians to take their leave. They bow and shuffle back into the palace.

Once they are out of earshot, she scoffs, "Francis, it's not like we haven't cemented our notorious reputation as a King and Queen who can't keep their hands off each other and -"

Her head is almost sent whirling when he suddenly lifts her high above his head, spinning her around and blurring the night sky.

With his arms holding her steady, she feels just like a girl.

—

The following morning, they sit on a picnic mat laid out beneath them in the palace gardens. She inhales the sweet scent of flowers and smiles, already looking forward to what the day has in store for them.

"Mary, I have something for you. A gift," there is a hint of excitement in his voice, which she finds incredibly endearing.

He presents her with the gift that is wrapped in brown leather and curiosity piques her.

"What is it?"

Holding his breath, he looks at her in anticipation of her reaction, the grin on his lips alighting in his eyes.

She unwraps the gift and rears back with a gasp.

"It's for your protection. Made by yours truly," he pronounces the last two words with pride and smiles smugly at her.

"A dagger. Oh, Francis, I love it," she breathes, admiring his work in the sun, and smoothing her thumb over the shininess of the blade.

Upon closer examination, she notices something crafted nicely on the handle.

M.S.

Her initials.

She gazes at Francis adoringly and presses a kiss to his forehead. It's all she can do to refrain herself from jumping his bones right there and then.

God. She can't believe that thought just entered her (uninhibited) mind.

"It gives a sense of ownership, don't you think?" he asks.

"It does. Darling, you have truly outdone yourself this time. I'm not sure how to use it, though…" she trails off, biting her lip. She wraps back the dagger with the brown leather and places it near the picnic basket in front of them.

"Don't worry, I'll teach you. Just like how I'm teaching you sailing as well. With ample practice and focus, you'll be good at both in no time," he assures her, a comforting smile playing on his lips, his hand gently stroking her shoulder.

Actually, she wants him to teach her shooting with a bow and arrow, but decides to be patient and she leaves it at that. She plans to breach the subject when he finishes teaching her sailing (which she is still far from mastering, as she almost capsized the boat on several practice sessions).

"You're my favourite mentor in the world," she admits then, playing with his fingers.

"Why, because I'm the only one who willingly puts up with your impatience?"

With that, she nudges his shoulder jokingly, "Maybe."

She pauses before adding, "Because it's you, Francis. Don't you see? You are the light of my life."

She decides to bring up the one thing that has been niggling at the back of her mind.

"I'm sorry I don't show you how much I love you with surprises or gifts," she mumbles in shame, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

"What?" Francis pulls away, concern written all over his face. "Mary… What-"

"You always go the extra mile for me. Planning lovely surprises, giving me gifts, professing your love for me… There is nothing you wouldn't do for me. I-I feel like I'm not doing enough for you, Francis. Letting you know just how much I love you," she tells him apprehensively, fidgeting with her hands.

"Mary…" he leans forwards and readily pulls her into his embrace.

"Ah, so this is where it's coming from. Doing all of these things, it's how I choose to express my love for you, Mary. But you, you're different. And it doesn't matter, because your actions and words do speak volumes to me," he draws back slightly, lifting her chin so that she looks at him.

"I know how much you love me, I do. I see it when I wake up to you every morning next to me, your limbs tangled up with mine. I feel it when we spin across the ballroom floor, our eyes locked and I'm holding you steady in my arms. I hear it when you raise your voice in fervent support of my decisions during our meetings with the nobles, and when you soothe me while massaging my tired back at the end of a long day."

She sniffles, suddenly realising that she's crying.

She closes her eyes briefly to compose herself, then rolls her eyes at how ridiculous she's acting. Francis gathers her back into his arms, "I just want you to be you. Just Mary." he murmurs, his voice audibly an octave lower, "because that's the girl I love. The girl I'll always love. Okay?"

He starts rubbing circles on her shoulder and it relaxes her.

"More than you know," she laughs, relieved to get it off her chest, "One day, I'll do something special for you."

She stares off into the distance, deep in thought.

"I suppose I am good at writing. Hmm," she mulls it over as she rests her head on his shoulder.

"Well then, I shall write you a poem. A poem to express my love for you. A poem that will surpass that lovely little speech of yours by a milestone, that will be remembered in ink, and for centuries to come," she expresses sincerely, nodding her head adamantly.

"I'll take you up on it. You know I'll love anything you write," he smiles, nuzzling his nose with hers. She scrunches them teasingly. A breathy laugh escapes his lips, and raises goosebumps on her skin. How she wishes that everyday can be like this, them being just a boy and girl in love.

For now, though, it makes her fall in love with him all over again.

"Well, if you still feel you're not doing enough, I do know something that you can do for me," he grins at her cheekily.

"Oh, what's that?" she inquires with feign innocence, leaning closer to him, the remaining distance between them electrifying.

To put it simply, they have been in similar situations far too many times, which often resulted in their hands all over each other, and his face buried in her neck.

And yet, she shamelessly remembers every one of them. She doesn't tell Francis that sometimes she just wants to spend an entire day in bed with him, that she daydreams about the way his lips makes her skin shiver, and the way she is always left wanting more.

"How does he do that with his tongue?" is a recurring question that occasionally surfaces in her mind at the most inappropriate times. She feels her cheeks burn and can do nothing but blush profusely, looking like anything but a Queen. She blames Francis for it.

(No, not really.)

Also, the look on his face right now is one she knows all too well.

Cradling her head with one hand, he carefully manoeuvres her so that her body is pressed against the mat, and to prevent her skirts from getting wrinkled (he mentioned it to her once in bed).

She stares at him with hooded eyes, her expression teasing as she whispers, "I hope I can do it right, then."

The tantalising sight of her pink, plump lips slowly overtakes him.

"Oh, you will," he grins, his voice laced with desire.

She considers warning him about the five guards that are currently watching them, but as Francis trails kisses down the vulnerable flesh at her neck, his mouth open and hot, and his hand knotted in her hair, she decides she doesn't particularly care.