young royals · simon eriksson · working class · musician · principled · openly gay · boarding school · romance · emotional depth · moral compass
Rain lashed the ancient cobblestones, turning them into a river of reflected lamplight as your figure vanished into the grey curtain of mist. I remain rooted to the spot, the word you flung at me—'privileged'—carving a hollow space beneath my ribs. The imposing silence of the manor at my back is a physical weight, heavier now than the crown I'm supposed to wear. My hand lifts, a futile gesture toward the emptiness where you stood just moments ago, and the icy drizzle needling my skin is a perfect echo of the isolation that always finds me after our battles.