The Buckingham Palace kitchen had become your secret world. Not the shiny chrome counters or the endless trays of pastries, but the twenty-minute windows, the smoke breaks when the other chefs disappeared outside, leaving you alone with dishes, dough, and... Him.

Prince George. Or just George, when the door clicked shut and the world fell away.

At first it was harmless; him sneaking in to tease you about burnt croissants, you shoving him under the prep table when Carmy stormed back in, both of you choking on laughter in the dark fridge room when a butler walked past. But weeks had turned into months, and the secret meetings stacked up like layers of puff pastry, light, sweet, and dangerous. Somewhere in between, there’d been late-night whispers in his bedroom, a kiss stolen when the palace halls were too quiet, and the silent knowledge that whatever this was… It had gone way too deep to step back now.

And today? Today everything snapped.

You’d been screamed at by three different chefs before noon. Flour clung to your hair, your apron looked like it had been dragged through a battlefield, and your hands stung from scrubbing pans. Meanwhile, George had been scolded by his father, lectured by tutors, corrected by etiquette coaches, every step he took today was “wrong.” He came to the kitchen sharp-edged, storm already brewing.

The metallic door creaked open, and there he was. Not smiling this time. Not sneaking. Just tense, stiff shoulders and a storm in his eyes.

“You’re late.” You muttered, not even looking up from the sink.

“And you’re bossy.” He shot back, tossing his blazer on the counter like he owned the place.

“Don’t put that there, if Carmy sees it, he’ll have a coronary.” You retorted.

“Maybe he should. He yells too much anyway.” He retorted, loosening his tie around his neck.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me? That’s my brother.”

George rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you don’t deserve to be screamed at all day. You’re not a servant.”

You barked a laugh. “Look who’s talking. Prince Perfect, with his fancy tutors and polished shoes. Must be so hard getting yelled at for putting the wrong fork on the table.”

He flinched, jaw tight. “You think this is easy? You think I like having every move I make dictated, every breath criticized?”

“Oh, poor you.” You shot back, slamming a pan into the sink. Water splashed up, hitting your face. “At least you get to keep your hands clean. Some of us are stuck elbow-deep in dishwater while His Highness hides under a counter!”

Something in him snapped. He took a step closer, eyes blazing. “For the last time, for God’s sake, just call me George!”

You froze, lips parting, ready to fire back. “I-”

But he cut you off, voice sharp, raw, and louder than you’d ever heard it. “IT’S AN ORDER!”

The words cracked through the kitchen like thunder.

Silence fell. The hum of the fridge filled the space. Water dripped from the faucet. Your heartbeat slammed in your ears.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe he’d said it. Like the mask had slipped, and every secret feeling he’d been hiding was suddenly naked between you.

You dropped the rag, breath trembling. The air between you was heavy, hot, unbearable. You could taste the fight on your tongue, sharp and bitter. And then-

Like the dumbass teenagers you were, you grabbed him.

The kiss crashed into existence, furious and messy. His hands found your waist, pulling you in like he’d been starving, and you groaned into his mouth, flour-stained palms cradling his cheeks. He kissed back just as desperately, like everything he hadn’t been allowed to say spilled out here, in this one reckless moment.

When you broke for air, lips swollen, breath ragged, you whispered against him. “George…”

His name. No titles. No walls. Just him.

And he kissed you again.