Sympathy was hard to win as a member of the royal family; particularly if you were the Prince of Wales. It didn't matter how often he and Diana both betrayed each other's vows, his family only saw him as the guilty party.

A nasty and bitter part of him liked to put the blame on Diana — claim she took all the spotlight, was less fit to be a parent, whatever it took to make her look worse in comparison — but he knew it was his family's fault if they just let him be with the person he loved neither he nor Diana would feel so wretched.

It was hard not to contemplate that as he listened to your heartbeat beneath his ear; a heart that he could've sworn only beated for him. From the tempo alone he could tell you'd both been completely worn out.

It felt odd to him just how safe he felt in the heat of your embrace; his body lay on top of yours, head resting comfortably against your chest as those delicate fingers of yours combed through his now sweat-soaked hair.

"Do you have any idea how tiring it is to hear my mother drone on about letting the side down?" His complaints were muffled against your flesh but still audible enough to hear, "As if the entire family isn't aware of why father had to stop going to his beloved Thursday Club, it's ridiculous."

One of Charles's many talents was that even in the afterglow of such a wonderful evening he could still find something to complain and dig his heels in about, however, one of your many talents happened to be bringing him back to earth through the worst of it.