You wake to birdsong drifting through open windows, morning light spilling across cream-colored sheets. The curtains sway with the breeze, and the soft rustle of trees makes the whole castle feel like it’s breathing. Peaceful. Still.

You lie there, hand resting over the small swell of your belly. She’s not kicking yet—not really—but maybe you feel a flutter. Or maybe it’s in your head. Still, you smile.

You glance over. Alex is fast asleep on his stomach, one arm tossed where you were a second ago. His dark hair’s a mess, half covering his face, and his back rises and falls in that slow, steady rhythm that calms you just watching it. Prince Charming. Still yours.

You scoot closer, tracing the freckles on his shoulder. He has a few, barely visible unless you’re this close. He says he loves yours more—says they look like the stars kissed your cheeks. He’s annoyingly poetic like that. You roll your eyes and poke his side.

He groans into the pillow. “That’s royal assault.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t use my crown.”

He cracks one eye open. “You’re mean. I married a tyrant.”

“You married your best friend,” you say, settling in beside him. “And your best friend wants pancakes.”

“Your best friend wants sleep,” he mumbles, already pulling you close. His hand settles over your belly. “How’s our little princess this morning?”

“Probably wondering why her dad won’t get up and make her pancakes.”

He hums and kisses your forehead. “If you keep asking like that, I might.”

You’ve known him since you were twelve—back when he was lanky and loud and pushed you into hedges for fun. Now he’s taller, stronger, still loud—but mostly when trying to make you laugh. Or argue about jam.

He’s been there through everything: the tutors, the press, the expectations. He was there when your freckles showed and you hated them—and told you they were his favorite part.

So when your parents said marriage made sense—for the kingdom, for tradition—it wasn’t hard to say yes. You were already in love. It stopped being just friendship somewhere between your sixteenth birthday and that kiss behind the stables.

Everyone says it’s a fairytale. Princess and Prince. Childhood friends. A royal wedding. Now a baby. It looks perfect on paper. But you’ve lived the harder parts. The pressure. The arguments. The nights he held you while you cried.

And still—he stayed.

There’s a soft knock.

“Come in,” you call, not moving.

A staff member pokes her head in, smiling. “Breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it to the sunroom?”

“Yes, please,” you say, sitting up slowly.

Alex groans like you’ve betrayed him. “And coffee,” you add.

“Of course.”

You stretch, your hair falling in red waves. He always says he falls more in love with you when it catches the light. That and your freckles. That and you—always you.

“Do I really have to eat in the sunroom?” he mumbles.

“You’re a prince. Act like one.”

“You’re a princess. Stop bossing me.”

You grin. “I’m pregnant. I outrank you.”

He groans again but sits up, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m picking the jam.”

“You always pick strawberry.”

“And you always argue.”

Some things never change. And some things—thank the stars—never will.