Page 501 of Bad Prince
She holds it up.
It’s thick, soft, expensive, and embroidered at the chest with a simple silver crest and the wordsRoyal Oaks Regatta Clubin small old-school script—some vintage Newport thing I found in a boutique and absolutely did not need to buy.
Except I did.
Because I’m me.
Because this weekend made me worse in all the best ways.
She glances down at herself, then at me.
I’m already wearing the charcoal version with the same silver stitching.
Her stare sharpens.
“You bought us matching East Coast rich-kid hoodies?”
My smile turns lazy and a little dangerous.
“I bought us travel clothes.”
“These are coordinated.”
“These are warm.”
She narrows her eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
I reach over, tug the hoodie gently from her hands, and help pull it over her head before she can keep arguing.
It swallows her just slightly.
Looks devastating anyway.
And by the time it settles over her skin, it already smells faintly like me.
The jet ride home is the opposite of the flight out.
No blindfold.
No teasing.
No altitude seduction that almost gets us into trouble.
Just fatigue.
Warmth.
The soft afterglow of a weekend that changed the shape of something neither of us can pretend away anymore.
We work a little at first.
Laptops open.
Messages answered.
One paper Stella wanted to revise before Monday.
