Prince Charming
1644 Words
I wake up to the sound of someone clattering in my kitchen again, and for one disoriented moment, I think: burglar. Again.
But then I smell coffee—overly sweet, aggressively enthusiastic, and definitely not mine—and I know immediately who it is.
Leo is in my kitchen. Again. In the morning. Like this is a normal thing he does. Like he lives here.
And honestly, I’m not sure if I’ve decided whether that’s annoying, terrifying, or… weirdly comforting.
A small table has magically appeared beside my mattress, complete with a glass of water and a bottle of meds arranged like a cheerful still-life painting. There’s even a sticky note on top. A heart doodle. Half-assed but confident, like he drew it without thinking.
“How did you even get these?” I ask, voice still wrecked from sleep and zero coffee.
The question isn’t just about logistics—it’s about boundaries, autonomy, reality. About last night, which I haven’t decided how to file yet.
He doesn’t turn around. Just keeps whisking something in a bowl like a domestic god who is somehow also a menace.
“The hospital was kind enough to let your emergency contact get them for you,” he says.
I blink.
“You’re not my emergency contact.”
“I wasn’t your emergency contact,” he corrects, finally turning with a smug grin that tells me he has practiced this moment. “Until I took you into the ER and they told me you didn’t have one. So I am now yours.”
He doesn’t say it dramatically, but it lands dramatically—like someone just inserted a new organ into my body without warning.
I shouldn’t like it.
But there’s a low warm buzz under my ribs, and it’s not pain.
Speaking of pain, there’s barely any.
Which is bizarre, because yesterday, everything hurt. My abdomen felt like someone had lined it with razor blades, stitched it up wrong, and told me to go live a normal life.
I haven’t even taken the meds yet.
Leo sees the realization wash over my face and smirks.
“I told you I have a healing presence,” he says, winking.
I want to throw the water glass at him. Or climb under the blanket and hide. Probably both.
He comes to sit next to me, knees almost bumping mine—too casual. Too close. Too comfortable in my space.
“Oh, also,” he says, and I brace, because nobody starts a sentence like that unless something unhinged is about to follow, “I called your work.”
“You did what?”
“And they were willing to push your restart date back by two weeks.” He watches my expression shift into stunned horror, but he keeps going. “And raise your pay. And actually start your editing internship since apparently a certain boss never pushed the paperwork through.”
I stare.
Blank, blinking, hamster-wheel brain failing to spin.
He looks delighted. He lives for this. For dropping nuclear updates into my lap while smiling like a man selling Girl Scout cookies.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He points at the meds.
So I take them. Because I can’t find my voice, and taking a pill is easier than dealing with whatever emotional time bomb he thinks he just defused.
The water hits my stomach, and I immediately panic, remembering how chemicals live in me. Twist me. Take control.
I breathe.
Slow, deep.
Trying not to let him see the war happening under my skin.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
Which is nice.
Or suspicious.
I can’t tell.
Satisfied, he disappears into one of my empty rooms, humming.
That is alarming.
Nothing good happens when a man hums while invading private spaces.
“Hey,” I call, using the wall to push up to stand. Pain shoots through me, not sharp, but warning. The memory of sharpness. “What are you doing in there?”
His head pops out, curls messy, expression murderous when he sees me upright.
“You’re supposed to rest,” he says, approaching like I’m a toddler about to run into traffic.
“Well, rest doesn’t fix my bladder, now does it?” I counter, even though that is not at all what I’m doing.
He does not care.
He picks me up. With one arm. Like I’m a disgruntled cat.
“Put me down!” I protest, flailing in the least coordinated, least dignified way possible.
“No,” he says, like we are debating nothing more serious than what to watch on Netflix.
He deposits me onto the toilet, then stands in the doorway—back to me, arms crossed.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I’m waiting.”
“I’m not peeing in front of you.”
“You’ve proven you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself. I’m staying nearby.”
“You can stay nearby with the door shut,” I snap, dignity building a weak defense.
His shoulders tense. He doesn’t like backing down.
But he does. Slowly. Reluctantly. The door closing like a punishment.
Damn, this boy is stubborn.
I do actually pee—thank god—and he is back in the bathroom immediately, scooping me up again before I can protest more than a syllable.
And this becomes our pattern for the week.
Every day:
I protest.
He ignores.
I call him my bodyguard, my chauffeur, my personal emotional support centaur.
He says things like, “I’d carry you anywhere, princess,” and “I can think of better uses for my stamina,” until I turn red enough to spontaneously combust.
Surprisingly, living together—playing house—doesn’t feel suffocating.
It feels…
Easy.
I learn he has two older brothers who used to throw him off rooftops “for fun,” which explains a lot.
That he’s CEO of something he refuses to name, which explains even more.
That he is aggressively chivalrous, but also unapologetically a flirt, which I can't decide is endearing or criminal.
By midweek, I’m walking fine.
Actually, I feel great.
Strong.
Healthy.
Normal.
And he is furious about it.
Every time I stand up on my own, he gets this betrayed look, like I’m cheating on him with my own independence.
When I tell him I’m going back to work Monday, he says, “No. Absolutely not,” as if we are married, and I’ve announced I’m joining the circus.
“You do not get to dictate that,” I argue.
His answer:
“I found you. I’m taking care of you.”
My brain short-circuits.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Then I do the stupidest thing imaginable.
“You’re not my husband,” I blurt.
Silence.
Awkward, nuclear silence.
His eyebrows climb.
He opens his mouth with some sarcastic rebuttal, but I mentally check out, burying my face in a pillow until sleep drags me under.
-----
Saturday arrives like a promise and a threat.
Leo announces he has a surprise.
Which would be cute, except surprises from him are always major-life-event-level intrusive.
“Leo, you’re too excited to put a blindfold on me,” I say as he ties one of his silk ties over my eyes.
His hands are warm on my face.
Gentle.
Too gentle.
He spins me like we’re in a cheesy rom-com montage. I yelp, stumble, swear at him—he laughs, delighted.
He guides me through the apartment, hands steady on my waist, voice low.
“Careful. Step. Good.”
It’s infuriating how safe I feel.
He positions me, stops, breathes like this moment is important.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Ready?”
“No.”
He laughs anyway.
The blindfold comes off.
I blink.
I finally have a bedroom instead of an empty waste of space.
It’s… transformed.
Lights strung overhead like constellations.
New sheets, clean, soft, cotton that smells expensive.
Plants.
Pillows.
A nightstand with books he knows I love—even though I never told him I loved them.
There’s art on the wall.
One piece I recognize from a wish list I made months ago and never bought because rent exists.
My throat tightens.
Not with fear.
Not with pain.
With something warm and inconvenient.
Leo stands in front of me, hands behind his back like he’s in grade school.
When he swings them around, he’s holding a piece of poster board.
It’s covered in glitter.
So much glitter.
The kind that will ruin my apartment forever.
In neon, chaotic handwriting, it reads:
WILL U GO ON A DATE WITH ME?
(I promise to be only medium annoying.)
He even drew checkboxes at the bottom:
☐ YES
☐ ALSO YES
I laugh.
Then I choke on it.
Because my body doesn’t know whether to scream, run, or kiss him.
He’s grinning like a golden retriever.
“Before you answer,” he says, “I should mention I already made reservations. And bought you a dress. And shoes. And a backup dress. And emergency earrings in case you hate everything.”
I stare at him.
At the poster.
At the room.
At the universe that allowed this chaotic, infuriating, charming disaster of a man to enter my life.
And all I can manage, voice small, is:
“You spelled ‘you’ with one ‘u.’”
He shrugs.
Playful.
Unbothered.
“Ran out of room. I committed to the glitter aesthetic.”
I shake my head.
I might cry.
I might laugh.
I might do both simultaneously.
He steps closer.
Just enough to bump his forehead against mine, stupidly tender.
“No pressure,” he murmurs. “But I’m pretty confident you’ll say yes.”
I swallow.
Heart pounding.
Gut-twisting.
Life shifting.
And for the first time in a long time, pain isn’t the thing in control.
- Writer
