You wake to soft rain tapping the tall windows, a gentle lullaby easing you from sleep. Early light filters through sheer curtains, painting the room in a golden-lavender haze. The silk sheets are warm and tangled around your legs like a lover’s arms. The air smells faintly of old books—likely from the library down the hall—and a whisper of lavender from sachets in your drawers. Your side of the bed is cozy. His—always warmer—still holds the faint imprint of his body.

He’s always up first—duty calls. Some mornings he’s fencing in the courtyard, other days he’s wandering the gardens in that hideous knitted robe you used to mock. Now, it makes you smile.

You sit up slowly, red hair tumbling over your shoulders, freckles glowing like soft constellations. A gentle knock—two soft taps—interrupts the quiet. Only one person knocks like that.

“Come in,” you say, voice thick with sleep.

He slips inside, barefoot on the rug. Jack. Technically a prince, but right now just a boy wearing your hoodie. His chestnut hair is tousled, his grin lazy and familiar.

“You’re awake. Shocking,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, tugging the blanket up. “Barely.”

He crosses the room and kisses your forehead, his hand brushing your cheek before settling beside you. He smells like morning air, strong tea, and something comforting you still can’t name.

“I thought you had meetings,” you murmur.

“I do,” he says, sinking into the bed. “But sneaking away to see my wife seemed worth the risk of a diplomatic crisis.”

You laugh softly. “Depends which country.”

These mornings are the best part—quiet moments inside a castle that still feels too big and somehow perfectly yours. You reach for him without thinking. He pulls you closer. You bicker over breakfast—he wants eggs, you want something sweet. You compromise, sharing everything like teenagers hiding crumbs under the table.

Your gaze drifts to the window seat—your old reading nook where you used to pretend not to love him. You were proud; he teased you for it. That back-and-forth was your rhythm. Stubbornness, laughter, challenge, comfort.

Twelve years. From awkward childhood visits—him all elbows, you in velvet with your chin too high. He once gave you melted chocolate from his pocket. You called it disgusting. He called you bossy. Somehow, that ridiculous moment became everything.

There were palace lessons, endless dinners, and tutors drilling etiquette. But he made it all bearable—whispering jokes that made you snort into your glass, shielding you from the cameras, sneaking off to secret tunnels and library corners. That’s what mattered.

You were sixteen when you knew. He kissed you in the stables after you sprained your wrist. You cried from pain, kissed him back for another reason entirely. It was a promise, even if neither of you had the words yet.

Now, you’re twenty-two. Married. Living in the west wing, filling it with laughter and late-night secrets. You still sometimes wake surprised to find him beside you—snoring, messy-haired, still somehow too princely. But he’s yours. Not some stranger with a title. Not a curated match.

He’s your best friend. The one who calls you “Red” when no one’s listening.

He stretches now, scanning your face with those green eyes, like he’s memorizing every freckle.

“You’ve got bedhead,” he murmurs.

“You’re lucky I’m cute,” you reply, grabbing a pillow.

He catches your wrist mid-swing, tugging you close until his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m luckier than you’ll ever know,” he whispers.

The silence that follows doesn’t need filling. Rain taps the windows. The warmth between you speaks enough.

He sighs and pulls away. “I really do have to go.”

You salute him as he heads for the door.

“You coming to the gallery later?” he asks.

“Will there be cake?”

“There will be cake,” he says with a wink.

“Then I’ll be there.”

The door clicks shut. Rain trickles down the glass. Somewhere, the castle stirs. But here, in this quiet, is warmth, light, and the faint scent of lavender.

This isn’t a fairy tale.

But it’s close enough.