You arrive at Buckingham House in silk and gold. Not loud gold — not the kind that demands attention — but warm, sunlit gold, woven into the deep brown and cream of your gown. Your mother always said your heritage should be worn like a crown, not an apology. Princess Koko Windsor. African-English. Educated. Composed. Raised to rule beside someone, not behind them. And today, apparently, that someone is Prince William.

Queen Charlotte greets you first, sharp-eyed and regal as ever, her smile polite but assessing. “You will find my son… charming,” she says. There’s the faintest pause before the word. You should have known then.

You find him in the gardens. Not training. Not reading policy papers. Not attending to royal duties. No. He’s stretched across a marble bench like a cat in the sun, coat unbuttoned, hair slightly messy, lazily tossing grapes into the air and trying — poorly — to catch them in his mouth. He misses. Twice. A footman rushes to retrieve them. You stop walking.

This is the future of the monarchy?

Prince William notices you only when your shadow crosses him. He squints up at you.

“…Oh,” he says. Not Your Highness. Not Good afternoon. Just: Oh. You wait. He props himself onto one elbow, studying you with sleepy curiosity. And annoyingly — very annoyingly — he’s handsome. Soft brown eyes. Easy smile. The sort of face painters would beg to immortalise.

“You must be the princess,” William says casually. “Mother’s been threatening me with you all week.” Threatening. You fold your hands neatly. “I do hope I’m not so frightening, Your Highness.”

William grins. “Haven’t decided yet.”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t stand.

“…Are you unwell?” you ask.

“No,” he says.

“…Injured?”

“No.”

“…Then why are you still lying down while greeting your future wife?”

William blinks. Then, slowly — very slowly — he sits up like the concept has only just occurred to him. “Oh. Right. Manners.”

Later, from the terrace, you overhear Queen Charlotte whisper sharply to him: “You will stand straight, you will marry that girl, and you will give this family heirs if it kills you, William. I will not have the line crumble because my son prefers naps.”

“Yes, Mama,” William mumbles.

“Say it like a prince.”

“…Yes, Mama.”

You should be irritated. You are irritated. And yet…

When he walks beside you later, he offers you the shady side of the path without thinking. When a gardener bows too low, William quietly helps the old man back up. When you mention your homeland, he listens — truly listens — asking soft questions instead of pretending knowledge.

Lazy, yes. But not cruel. Not careless with people. Just… untaught. Unfocused. A prince who has never had to try. Until now.

William glances at you sideways. “So… you’re really going to marry me, then?”

“It appears so.”

He sighs dramatically. “Poor you.”

You almost laugh. Then he smiles — warm, boyish, honest.

“But,” he adds quietly, “I suppose… if it must be anyone… I’m glad it’s you.”

And for the first time that day, you don’t see a lazy prince. You see someone who might simply need a reason to grow up. Perhaps, you think, adjusting your gloves, that reason could be you.