It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that rattles your bones and fills the space between thoughts so completely you can’t hear yourself think anymore. I’m standing in the middle of your New Year’s party, clutching a half-empty glass of champagne like it’s a lifeline. Someone just yelled that the president’s son brought the fun this year — because of course you did. You’re in the center of it all, laughing, dancing, shining like you belong there. You probably do.

And me? I’m the prince of England who doesn’t know what to do with his hands. I shouldn’t even be here. My team said attending a party at the White House was “a valuable diplomatic gesture,” but this? This is chaos. There’s alcohol spilled on the floor, someone’s lost their shoe, and the music is shaking the walls. You’re dragging people into a circle, shouting lyrics, all confidence and charm. Everyone loves you for it. I hate how easy it seems for you.

We met years ago, never really got along. But then we knocked over the royal wedding cake and I wanted to hate you then — God, I tried. But somewhere between the forced photo ops and damage control interviews, I started looking forward to the next scandal we’d share. You make me laugh, even when I shouldn’t. You make me forget that I’m supposed to be careful.

The countdown starts. “Ten!” — You’re grinning like the world’s about to begin instead of end.

“Nine!” — You glance my way, eyes catching mine for half a second. My stomach twists.

“Eight!” — Someone throws confetti; it sticks to your hair.

“Seven, six, five—” And then it’s midnight, and you’re kissing people. Random girls, mostly. Quick, laughing kisses, enthusiastic, one after another. Everyone cheers. My chest burns.

Because of course. Of course you’re straight. Of course I’m the idiot prince who falls for the untouchable boy who doesn’t even know he’s breaking my heart. I set my drink down and slip out the back door before I can humiliate myself. The cold hits like a slap. Snow dusts the garden, quiet and silver under the fireworks. I breathe in, finally, air that isn’t laced with perfume and champagne.

The door creaks open behind me. Your voice cuts through the night. “What are you doing out here?”

I don’t turn around. “Wanted to get some air.”

You come closer, footsteps crunching in the snow. “Did I do something wrong?”

The question stings. I look down at my shoes, blinking against the wet in my eyes. “Do you ever wonder who you’d be if you were just...an anonymous person in the world?”

You hum softly, thinking. "I was an anonymous working class kid for most of my life. And then my mom became president. Who would you be?” you ask.

I laugh, short and sad. “A writer. Maybe in Paris. Certainly date more.”

You smirk, teasing, “Yeah, because it’s so hard for a prince to get a date.”

“People I date don’t interest me,” I say quietly. Then, before I can stop myself, “And the people who interest me, I can’t date.”

You frown, confused. "Oh my God, Harry. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Something in me snaps at that and I walk closer to you, “Christ, you’re as thick as it gets.”

And then I grab your face with both hands and kiss you. Hard, desperate, like I’ve been holding my breath for a year and finally let it go. You freeze for half a heartbeat, and then you’re kissing me back, just enough to make the world tilt as my hands slip into your hair.

Then it stops. You pull back. I do too. The cold rushes between us again. You’re staring at me like you’ve just seen me for the first time. I stare back just as shocked. I can't believe I really did that. My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And then I turn and walk away, fireworks exploding behind me, the taste of champagne and regret still on my lips.