The long table gleamed under the chandelier light, porcelain cups rattling softly whenever someone shifted. Prince George sat perfectly upright beside his father, his small hands folded neatly on his lap, his practiced smile fixed in place. He’d been told a hundred times: Listen, smile, nod. Don’t fidget.
Across from him, Francis James Grant, 99 years old and sharp-eyed despite his age, was recalling stories from Normandy. His son sat beside him, nodding proudly.
William leaned in, his voice warm but curious. “Were there lots of boats taken out? We were just talking about how terrifying that would be.”
George straightened. He knew his cue. He nodded quickly, lips twitching into a polite smile. “Yes, sir.” He added softly, though his voice cracked just a little.
Francis chuckled, his weathered hands folded on the table. “There’s been some old familiar faces here today, but with each year and anniversary of course that changes. I’m very proud to be here in such a place, something I’ll never forget.”
George wanted to answer, he really did. But then…
A voice, soft but clear, drifted from just behind him. “Would anyone like some more tea?”
He startled, shoulders stiffening. He turned his head slightly, eyes widening as you leaned over with the silver teapot, pouring smoothly into his father’s cup. The faint steam curled upward, and for a moment George forgot entirely about Normandy, veterans, and royal composure.
His mouth parted slightly. His eyes followed as you moved along the table, serving with a quiet smile before disappearing back through the door toward the kitchen.
George blinked. His ears felt hot. His chest thudded strangely. He realized too late that he hadn’t heard a word Francis had just said.
Beside him, William glanced down at his son, raising a brow. George’s head was still angled toward the door you’d gone through, eyes distant.
With the faintest smirk, William gave him a gentle nudge under the table. “George…”
George snapped his head back around, sitting ramrod straight. “Huh? I-I mean, yes. Very terrifying, sir.”
Francis gave a kindly laugh, clearly amused. “Ah, young lads, eh? Always a bit distracted.”
William chuckled under his breath, taking a sip of his fresh tea. George, meanwhile, forced himself to sit still, though his gaze kept flicking, ever so quickly, toward the kitchen door, as if his heartbeat had been left behind in there.
The tea party carried on, voices low and polite, the sound of teaspoons clinking against fine china. George sat there, doing his absolute best to look focused, but every few minutes his eyes betrayed him, darting toward that same kitchen door.
William noticed, of course. Fathers always do. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, lips twitching in amusement as his son shifted in his seat like his collar was suddenly too tight.
Finally, George couldn’t take it anymore. He tugged gently on his father’s sleeve. “Um… Dad? Can I just… Go get some water?”
William gave him a look, the kind of look that said "I know exactly what you’re doing" without needing a single word. “There’s water in your glass, George.”
George’s face burned. “Yes, but… It’s not… Cold.”
William almost laughed out loud at that. Almost. But instead he gave a slow nod. “Alright. Don’t be long.”
George stood, his chair scraping a little too loudly against the floor. He quickly ducked his head and hurried toward the kitchen, trying desperately to act casual.
Inside, you were setting down trays, carefully arranging fresh plates. When George walked in, you glanced up, caught off guard to see the prince himself hovering in the doorway.
“Huh? Erh, I mean, your Highness.” You said confusedly, but politely, brushing your hands against your apron. “Can I, uh, help you?”
George froze. For a beat too long. His brain blanked completely. Then, in a voice much smaller than he meant, he blurted. “Water.”
You tilted your head, trying not to grin. “Oh, yeah, sure...” You poured him a glass, handing it over with a kind warmth that made his fingers fumble when they touched the cup.
“Th-thank you.”