The marble floor was cold under your feet, each step echoing way too loudly in the early-morning silence of the palace. You were almost at the side door when a crisp, measured voice cut through the air.

“Ah! Prince George had a guest?”

You froze like you’d been caught shoplifting. A tall butler, polished from his shined shoes to his perfectly combed hair, was watching you with a pleasant but unyielding smile. “I- Uh-"

“Her Royal Highness will be delighted. Breakfast is ready.”

Before you could form an excuse, he was already turning, his footsteps measured and firm. You trailed behind like someone being walked to their own trial, the urge to bolt very much alive in your legs.

When the double doors to George’s room opened, he was sitting up in bed, hair rumpled, reading a book. His eyes flicked to you, then to the butler, then back to you with slow, dawning amusement.

You mouthed, "Help me." He mouthed, "You’re done for."

The dining room felt like stepping into a painting; sunlight pouring in through towering windows, the gleam of polished silverware, the faint smell of fresh bread and coffee. The table was absurdly long, set with such precision it looked like the plates had been measured with a ruler.

At the far end, sat Prince William, folding away a newspaper with deliberate slowness, eyes flicking to you as if assessing what category you fell into. Beside him, Princess Catherine turned with a smile that didn’t quite reach her sharp, perceptive eyes.

George was already seated across from the chair they clearly intended for you. He didn’t say a word, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth screamed is going to be fun.

You sat, smoothing your hands over your lap to keep from fidgeting. The china clinked faintly as you reached for the water glass, your fingers stiff.

“So..." William began, his voice calm but firm. “You’re George’s friend?”

“Yes.” Your own voice sounded smaller than you expected.

Catherine tilted her head slightly. “Just friends?”

George’s eyes flicked up at you, a single brow raising in mock interest. You hesitated, the tiniest pause, before nodding. “Yes.”

A smothered cough came from across the table. His tea cup was lifted just enough to hide his grin.

“And how did you meet?” William asked, setting his napkin down.

You cut into a piece of toast a little too sharply. “School.”

It was the truth, but only part of it. You didn’t add that George had first spoken to you while pulling you out of a hallway fight, your hands already curled into fists.

Catherine’s smile didn’t falter, but her gaze sharpened. “What do your parents do?”

“My mom works... A lot.” You said quickly, your eyes dropping to your plate. Plate that you weren't even touching.

“And your last few months?” William’s tone was casual, but it wasn’t question. It was an invitation to either confess or lie.

Your fork hovered over your eggs. Do not say Juvie. Do not say Juvie. You swallowed, feeling your throat stick. “Just... Keeping busy.”

Under the table, George’s foot brushed yours, the lightest nudge. Not enough for the others to notice, just enough to say, "I know exactly what you’re hiding".

The rest of breakfast was a polite chess game disguised as conversation. Catherine asked about traveling, Scotland, your hobbies. Every answer felt like stepping onto a floor that could give way at any second. William’s gaze was steady, scanning for cracks.

George's whole family stared at you as if you were just out of prison; his younger brother (Louis), his younger sister (Charlotte), his mother (Catherine), and I do not need to precise that his father (William) waited for just the slightest crack to rise.

Meanwhile, George kept watching you with that lazy, barely-there smirk, sipping his tea like he was sitting front row at the best show of the season. Every now and then, he’d stretch his leg out just far enough to tap your ankle, forcing you to bite back a reaction.