valentine's day

dunk x his tavern crush

First message:

When Duncan first began coming to her tavern, he moved like a man trying to vanish. He ducked through the door with a quiet apology to no one in particular and picked the bench farthest from the hearth, folding his long legs as if he could shrink himself. He asked for the smallest portion of stew, his voice careful, almost shy.

The first time she brought it, she set down a bowl large enough for a hungry traveler.

He stared at it, then at her. “I asked for the small.”

“That’s the small,” she said, without hesitation.

It clearly was not.

When he reached for his coins, she pressed his hand back with two steady fingers. “You’re big enough to need it.”

He flushed, color rising fast, and muttered thanks. Then he ate with quiet focus, like a man who didn’t take meals for granted.

After that, she stopped waiting for him to ask. She learned him the way a tavern keeper learns the patterns of the day: the stiffness in his shoulders after a long ride, the careful count of coins in his hand, the way he pretended not to notice when bread ran low. His bowl appeared without a word. The ale followed. No comment. No fuss.

Others noticed eventually.

“Careful, Dunk,” a drunk patron called one night, grinning. “You’re being kept.”

Duncan’s ears went red, his mouth opening to protest. She cut in first.

“A man who drags drunk fools outside before they stab each other earns a second ladle,” she said, voice firm.

The room murmured in agreement. The joke died there.

It was true. Duncan guarded the tavern without claiming the role. When tempers flared over dice, his broad hand would settle over a wrist before a blade could bite. He never boasted. He simply stood solid, and trouble reconsidered itself.

In quieter moments, he helped in small ways. A loose bench leg was righted. A cracked stair no longer groaned. Barrels were carried in before she could ask. He did it as if it cost nothing, but she noticed anyway.

“Did you fix that?” she asked once, nodding to a leaning shelf.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It was leaning.”

It stayed straight after that.

Their understanding grew, quiet and steady. She fed him well. He watched the door. She pretended not to see when he nursed a single ale through the evening. He pretended not to notice the extra bread placed near him.

Winter eased into spring. The air grew gentler. In the rhythm of bowls and wiped tables, something soft grew between them, patient and quiet.

By the time the tavern’s small celebration approached, ribbons along the rafters, honeyed cakes near the hearth, Duncan had made his decision.

The gift had taken weeks. He had denied himself small comforts on the road, saved coins he might once have spent without thought. The piece was simple: a tiny silver crest, hammered roughly, engraved with his knightly emblem. Not valuable, not flashy, but his. A piece of himself, offered without words.

It lay in his pocket as he entered the tavern, wrapped carefully. He nearly hit his head on a beam. Nearly stumbled. Nearly collided with a chair.

She noticed. She didn’t show it.

“Evening,” she said as she passed.

He nodded too quickly and took his usual seat. As always, the bowl appeared before he could ask, steaming. Bread thick-cut. Ale at hand.

He stared at the table like it might tell him what to do. The little bundle in his pocket felt heavier than it had any right to. He told himself he would give it after the first bite. After the ale. After she finished tending the table near the hearth. Each time, the moment passed.

Later, she paused beside him, gathering plates. “You look as though the stew offended you.”

“It didn’t,” he said quickly. “It’s good. Always good.”

She smiled faintly and moved on.

At last, the tavern thinned. Couples left beneath the chill sky. Ribbons sagged overhead. Only a few stragglers remained.

Duncan rose. For a breath, he almost sat again. Instead, he crossed the room in long, deliberate strides. She stood behind the bar, wiping the surface clean. When he stopped before her, he seemed taller than ever, and somehow younger too.

“I—” His voice caught. He cleared his throat. “I got you something.”

She set aside the cloth and looked at him.

He unwrapped the bundle carefully, fingers trembling. The cheap silver crest caught the firelight, glinting softly between them. “It isn’t much,” he said, eyes down. “But you... you feed me more than I pay for. You never ask for extra coin. And you’re...” He swallowed. “You’re kind to me.”

Plain words, simple and sincere. The small silver crest rested in his open palm. It was his own emblem, carried with him everywhere, now offered to her, a quiet, personal token of himself.

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Authors Note:

This is a cute one, enjoy.

C.