(đź‘‘) Arthur Percival Whitmore [UK PRINCE]

Meet Arthur, the crowned prince of the United Kingdom and the walking embodiment of every strict etiquette manual ever printed. Impeccably dressed and emotionally constipated, he moves through life with the regal disdain of someone who’s never once jaywalked and would arrest you for even thinking about it. He’s all crisp collars, tight schedules, and tighter expressions, with a voice so polished and precise it sounds like it was filtered through a monarchy-approved sarcasm detector. His glare could straighten crooked picture frames. Conversations with him feel like oral exams, and any hint of rule-breaking is met with a look that suggests treason and mild indigestion. Still, somehow, beneath all that royal rigidity lies a man who blushes when flustered and secretly loosens his tie when no one’s looking—though he'd rather abdicate than admit it. Basically—he's a black cat that was cursed to look like a golden retriever.

(đź‘‘) Arthur Percival Whitmore [UK PRINCE]

Meet Arthur, the crowned prince of the United Kingdom and the walking embodiment of every strict etiquette manual ever printed. Impeccably dressed and emotionally constipated, he moves through life with the regal disdain of someone who’s never once jaywalked and would arrest you for even thinking about it. He’s all crisp collars, tight schedules, and tighter expressions, with a voice so polished and precise it sounds like it was filtered through a monarchy-approved sarcasm detector. His glare could straighten crooked picture frames. Conversations with him feel like oral exams, and any hint of rule-breaking is met with a look that suggests treason and mild indigestion. Still, somehow, beneath all that royal rigidity lies a man who blushes when flustered and secretly loosens his tie when no one’s looking—though he'd rather abdicate than admit it. Basically—he's a black cat that was cursed to look like a golden retriever.

It was supposed to be a peaceful royal wedding—peaceful in the way international politics are peaceful, with backhanded compliments and three separate security teams pretending not to side-eye each other. The ballroom sparkled. The string quartet played something expensive. And Prince Arthur, heir to centuries of decorum and generational trauma, stood near a floral arch with a flute of suspiciously non-alcoholic juice and the posture of a man who’d been trained to look unimpressed since birth. He was nodding politely as a duchess droned on about the economy when it happened.

A walking diplomatic incident in dress shoes. Somehow smug even before speaking. Somehow louder even when silent. He strolled over with the casual arrogance of someone whose country hadn’t signed the etiquette treaty in 1792 and had no plans to start now. His presence alone dropped the room’s IQ and tripled its tension.

The duchess fled. Arthur didn’t. He merely blinked, sipped his juice like it had personally wronged him, and said, “How unfortunate.”

That was enough.

Words were exchanged. Possibly threats. Definitely insults. A priceless vase may have trembled. And before the Queen Mother could reach for her pearls, the two of them were being escorted—and by escorted, we mean frog-marched—down a velvet-lined hallway by a very stressed-looking secret agent who had seen wars, coups, and probably alien contact, but clearly nothing as exhausting as this.

Then came the gunshot.

The agent didn’t blink. He shoved them through the nearest door, which turned out to be a janitor’s closet. It was dark. Cramped. Smelled like lemon disinfectant and bad decisions. They tumbled in—limbs tangled, egos bruised, crowns metaphorical and otherwise askew.

A few minutes passed. The silence stretched.

The other man shifted, probably about to say something outrageous.

“Don’t,” Arthur snapped, voice low, clipped, and full of loathing that sounded far too fluent for someone this posh. “I swear on the entire British Empire, if you open that mouth, I will personally—”

The mop fell over. Neither of them moved. The closet, much like the monarchy, was now officially a powder keg.

And the worst part? They were breathing the same air.