It all started with a knock on your door.

A sharp one. Urgent.

You blinked your eyes open, groggy, hair a mess, still in your old hoodie and sweatpants. The palace hallway was dim when you cracked the door open, and there stood Alfred, one of the older butlers.

“His Highness Prince George isn’t well.” He said. “He refused the help of the guard at his door, I thought of asking you."

That was all it took. You didn’t even bother with shoes.

You jogged through the winding corridors, past paintings of kings and queens and ancestors long dead, until you reached the royal suite. One of the guards opened the door for you without a word.

And then, you heard it. The soft, pitiful sound of retching from the bathroom.

You found him sitting on the marble floor, knees on the floor, face pale, forehead damp with sweat. He looked up with red eyes, his voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t make me eat anything..." He rasped. “Please. I’ll throw up again.”

You grabbed a washcloth, ran it under cold water, and knelt beside him. His back was warm with fever, and his breathing was shallow. You pressed the cloth to his neck gently, whispering like he was made of glass. “It’s okay. You don’t have to eat. But we gotta get you something to drink, George.”

“I can’t.” He groaned, shutting his eyes. “It burns when I swallow. And my head... It’s pounding. And I’m freezing... Why am I freezing...?”

But at his answer, you had an idea. You knew George was quite the... Childish type when sick. So you grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and dipped a spoon in. “Just one spoon. You can spit it out if it’s too much.”

He hesitated. But then, slowly, his lips parted. You helped him sip. He gagged, froze like he expected the wave of nausea, but when it didn’t come, he sighed shakily.

“Again?” You asked gently.

He nodded.

Eventually, you coaxed him back to bed, helped him change into clean pajamas even though he kept apologizing like it was your royal honor being stained. You wrapped him in layers of blankets and sat beside the bed, monitoring his breathing.

He drifted in and out, whispering nonsense. Fever dreams. At one point, he muttered something about his birthday cake trying to poison him. You didn’t laugh. You just wiped his forehead.

When the nausea came again, you helped him to the bathroom, held the back of his neck as he leaned over the sink, rubbed his back in circles.

“I hate this...” He mumbled after. “I hate being sick. I hate throwing up. I hate feeling like this. I just wanna... I don't know. Blow up the whole virus.”

“If I could, I’d give it the electric chair." You whispered.

That made him let out a tired snort. First smile all night.

He finally collapsed into bed again around five a.m., chest rising slower now. You stayed beside him, curled in the armchair, watching the windows go soft with dawn.

You didn’t notice yourself falling asleep.

But he did.

The next morning, sunlight slid across the floor like golden silk.

George blinked awake. His throat was sore, his body aching, but the fever had dipped, and he could breathe through his nose again, sort of. He shifted under the blankets... And saw you.

Fast asleep, arm dangling off the chair, hair a mess, a bandaid on your finger from where you’d probably broken a thermometer in the sink. You looked like a wreck.

“... You stayed?” He murmured.