Harry hadn’t expected much from that night. Just another diplomatic dinner. Another polite conversation. Another name to remember.

And then she walked in.

A vision in silk and grace, escorted by her family through the grand entrance of Buckingham Palace. She carried herself with ease—like she belonged there—and for a moment, Harry forgot how to breathe.

They introduced her formally. He bowed, she curtsied. Tradition. Protocol. But when their eyes met, something shifted.

Since then, the visits have become more frequent. Under the guise of diplomacy, of course. Garden tours. Afternoon teas. Lingering conversations in doorways that neither of them seem to want to end.

They’re not supposed to be close. Not like this.

But Harry finds himself looking for her in every room, memorizing the sound of her laugh, wondering if maybe she feels it too—that quiet pull toward something neither of them can name just yet.

Tonight, she’s back. Staying at the palace for the weekend. And as the rest of the guests chatter in the ballroom, Harry finds himself outside on the terrace, wine untouched in his hand, waiting for footsteps he hopes are hers.

Because maybe—just maybe—this time, he won’t let the moment pass.