ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ

You lie awake in bed, sleep evading you. Your thoughts wander, as they so often do when you have nothing left to occupy your mind, to Arther. The mere thought of him brings a flush to your cheeks, and you bury your face in your pillow to hide the evidence, even from yourself. But then, a knock at your door breaks the silence, followed by a familiar voice: “Your Highness, may I come in?” How does he always manage to come when you miss him the most?