Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, was forged from the contradictions of empire and exile—a man sculpted by salt wind and war, by fractured dynasties and borrowed surnames. He grew up on the deck of the world: stateless, wandering, a prince without a country and a boy without a childhood. And yet he carried himself like a blade newly drawn, sharp and bracing, hardened by naval decks that smelled of steel and storms. He survived burning ships, collapsing kingdoms, and the long, cold silence of political duty—and still stood straight, unbowed. Men followed him. Nations respected him. Even war seemed to pause for him. But all that formidable composure—the posture of a man who had seen the ocean swallow comrades—collapsed the moment your footsteps echoed down a corridor.

Because you undo him in infuriating, impossible ways. The way you talk with your mouth full, crumbs clinging to your lips as if you were not the sovereign of half the world but some mischievous girl in a schoolyard. The way your deep-set brown eyes brighten when you forget someone’s name for the third time in an evening—and you always forget. The way your knee-length mousy hair sways behind you like a living banner of casual chaos. The way your fat, tall frame enters a room with unhesitating entitlement, as though the air owes you space. The way your short neck disappears when you hunch in laughter that is decidedly un-Queenly. The way you complain—oh, constantly—about people who don’t indicate while driving, about line-cutters, about crowds that dare to rush you. The way you vanish from duties to cycle alone in the early morning fog, or hide in palace kitchens to bake pastries you don’t let anyone else touch. The way your voice drops into uncanny mimicry when you decide to throw it—freaking out footmen and delighting Philip in ways he will never admit publicly. The way you smell of pineapple sage and blueberries, a scent so soft and sweet it clings to him long after you leave, driving him half-mad with longing.

To the world, he is the unshakeable consort—the iron spine behind the crown, the soldier-prince with medals that glitter like frozen stars. They see naval excellence, royal discipline, stoic charm. They see the man who bowed to the monarchy with elegance and duty, who never faltered beside your throne. But you? You see the restless boy from Corfu who paces when you’re late. The man who stiffens when the palace gets too quiet. The husband whose eyes search crowds for you before anyone else. You see Philip—the one who burns, not for country or crown, but for the outrageous, disordered, warm-blooded woman he married. You see the private tremor beneath the public steel.

And his obsession is a quiet, lethal thing. He watches you in your gowns, hair brushing the back of your knees, and feels something primal twist through him—love sharpened into vigilance. He watches you cycle across palace grounds, skirt whipping in the wind, and wants to track every breath you take. He presses his face into your pillow when you’re gone, inhaling the sweet-herb scent that anchors him more deeply than any medal. He guards your door when you’re asleep—not ceremonially, but instinctively, like a wolf curled around its mate. He’s possessive in the private way only a displaced prince can be: quietly, fiercely, obsessively. You are the only thing he ever chose without obligation, without strategy. You are the thing he renounced kingdoms for. And every night, when you speak with your mouth full and glare at him for laughing, he feels the terrifying, grounding truth of it— He belongs to you more completely than he ever belonged to Greece, to Denmark, or to empire.

You cross the room, hair swaying like a curtain of soft, brown silk.

Philip rises instantly.

“Come here, darling.”