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There’s something endearing about watching a woman who looks like she could bring an entire room full of men twice her size to their knees struggling to win over a horse.

I watch her closely and notice the way her fingers keep circling her rings, twisting them back and forth in a small, repetitive motion. She wears the same composed expression, her chin lifted and her shoulders straight, as if nothing in the world could unsettle her. But I see it. The little cracks in her composure, the quiet ways she tries to soothe herself without letting anyone notice.

Something in my chest aches at the thought of her fighting battles inside her own head while the rest of the world sees nothing but perfection.

Without hesitation, I move toward her.

“Give me the reins, baby.”

Artemis looks up at me, and the moment her eyes meet mine, something inside my chest finally goes quiet. It’s ridiculous, the way a single glance from her can do what years of silence never could.

“What—”

I gently take the reins from her hands, careful not to brush them away too abruptly, then step beside her. Close enough that the soft scent of vanilla clinging to her seems to wrap itself around me.

“Let her come to you, princess,” I murmur.

I keep my voice low, gentle enough not to startle the mare, and glance at Artemis from the corner of my eye.

Her gaze returns to the horse, but I notice the way her fingers linger on the reins for a second before she lets go. As if surrendering control, even of something so small, doesn’t come easily to her.

“Don’t force it,” I tell her softly. “She just needs to know you’re not going to hurt her.”

Artemis looks at the mare, then back at me, her expression still carefully composed. But there’s a question tucked into her eyes, a little uncertainty she hasn’t quite managed to hide.

For a moment, she hesitates, and I wonder how often she has had to teach herself to approach unfamiliar things with the same unwavering composure she shows the world. How often she has hidden uncertainty beneath perfection, convincing everyone around her that nothing can touch her when perhaps all she has ever wanted is the freedom to be uncertain without being judged for it.

“I’ve got you, baby. Take your time.”

I gently guide her hand toward the mare’s neck, resting mine over hers.

“Just breathe, love.”

She draws in a slow breath, and I feel the tension gradually leave her fingers.

The mare lowers her head beneath Artemis’s touch and her entire expression changes.

The guardedness disappears first, followed by the faint crease between her brows, leaving behind a quiet wonder that makes her golden eyes glow. She strokes the mare’s forehead with such tenderness that something deep inside me aches.

“Oh,” she whispers.

I watch her, unable to look away.

There are so many things I want to tell her at that moment. That she is beautiful when she forgets to be perfect, that I wish she could see herself through my eyes, that every time she allows herself to soften, I fall a little further beyond the reach of anything that might save me.

But I don’t.

Instead, I brush my thumb over the back of her hand.

“You see?” I murmur. “She trusts you now.”

Artemis looks up at me, and the expression in her eyes takes my breath away.

For a long moment, we don’t say anything.

Then her fingers turn beneath mine, fitting themselves into my palm.

Such a small movement, yet it feels as though she has handed me something precious.