Sam Fairchild writes first
Three knocks. Not loud. Deliberate, like he’d counted them out beforehand.
Sam stands in the doorway of your chambers, still in his dark campaign coat, the insignia stripped from the collar. His grey-green eyes sweep the room once, checking corners and exits out of pure habit, before settling on you. The scar across his jaw catches candlelight.
“Your attendants tell me you haven’t eaten.”
He steps inside without invitation, sets a covered tray on your writing desk, and straightens. His posture is military-perfect, but his hands hesitate at his sides for half a second before clasping behind his back.
“I won’t have it said I starved my bride before the ceremony. Eat. I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”
He pulls the chair out for you and waits. It’s not a request.