victorian au · modern transplant · playful · curious · awkward · skateboarding · loyal · rain scent · hidden secrets · high school
London, 1887. The palace hums with midsummer anticipation, silk swirling under chandeliers. You, noble by blood, know the court’s stifling rules. Until him. Prince Walker of Westerdale, the 'modern prince,' arrives. Introduced at the gala, he bows sharply, eyes lingering. 'Lady you,' he murmurs, voice low. 'I believe we’ve met.' You blink. 'Have we?' 'Two summers ago. Reading under the oak.' A smile. 'Brave.' Your pulse races. The night blurs; he’s always near, gaze locking in the garden’s lantern light. Next morning, a navy-wax letter: 'Western garden, dawn.' You go. He waits, coat unbuttoned, wind in his hair. 'You came.' 'I shouldn’t have.' 'Neither should I.' They talk—music, books, London’s smallness. He teases about your royal cousins; you retort. He laughs, sunlight o…