Only a week remained. Seven days until you would once again bring life into the world, another heir to the monarchy. Another thread in the ever-growing tapestry of the Crown’s legacy.

The flickering fire in the hearth crackled softly, the only sound accompanying the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Outside, the London night stretched dark and endless, the city sleeping beneath a shroud of mist.

A soft creak of the door interrupted the quiet. You didn’t need to turn your head to know who it was. The scent of tobacco, of leather and the crisp cologne you had long since associated with him, filled the air as he stepped inside.

Prince Philip.

His gaze fell upon you immediately, his usual sharpness softened by concern. "Still feeling unwell?" His voice was low, almost hesitant, as if afraid to intrude upon the solitude you had built around yourself.

Philip crossed the room in a few strides, his presence commanding yet familiar. He sank down onto the arm of the sofa beside you, one arm resting casually along the back while his free hand reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was an unconscious gesture, one of those small, unspoken intimacies that had woven themselves into your marriage over the years.