Johnny was barely five steps into the living room when Stacy tossed him a purse—a dainty little pink number that matched the trim of his gown far too perfectly.
"We’re going out for breakfast," she announced, already pulling her hair into a messy bun. "I’m craving waffles, and your royal highness can’t hide in the castle all day."
Johnny stared at her in horror, arms still wrapped around the voluminous layers of his skirt like they might protect him from reality. "You’re kidding, right? I’m not going out like this! People will see me!"
Stacy shrugged. "You don’t have a choice, remember? Unless you found a way to magically unzip that thing."
He hadn’t. The gown was still sealed onto him like it had grown there. He could feel the gentle squeeze of the corset-like bodice, the swish of petticoats against his thighs, and the whisper of lace from the bralette and panties that hugged his frame. The gloves molded to his arms like second skin, and the crown still sat atop his head—straight, secure, immovable. Every little movement made something swish, bounce, or sparkle.
The curse wasn’t just playing dress-up. It was rewriting him.
The car ride to the café was mercifully short. Johnny sat ramrod straight in the passenger seat, hands folded primly in his lap. His hair, styled into those impossibly perfect loops, bobbed softly with every bump in the road. Stacy hummed cheerfully to the radio, occasionally sneaking glances at him.
"You know, you’re really pulling this look off," she said. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were loving it."
Johnny opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a delicate little huff and a pink-cheeked glare.
There were a lot of people at the café.
Johnny froze in the doorway, trying to hide behind Stacy. The moment he stepped forward, the swish of his skirt gave him away—followed by the rhythmic click of his heels.
"Morning, Princess!" a smiling woman said, holding the door for them.
His cheeks burned. "T-thank you," he replied automatically, the words lilting with sugary elegance. His voice had taken on a tone he didn’t recognize—sweet, polite, vaguely regal.
They were seated near the front window, and Johnny’s efforts to sit modestly nearly resulted in him toppling over. The skirt puffed around him like a mushroom cloud. He spent an entire minute trying to tame the layers just enough to reach the bench without flashing anyone.
"You’re doing great," Stacy said between sips of coffee, eyes twinkling. "You haven’t even tried to run away yet."
Johnny tried to shoot her a dirty look, but the gentle expression on his face betrayed him. Something in his posture had shifted—his spine straight, chin lifted, hands resting delicately atop the table. A strange warmth had begun to settle inside him, wrapping itself around his nerves like a cozy fog.
When the waitress arrived, Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it. "I’ll have the strawberry short-stack, please. With extra whipped cream. If that’s alright with you, darling."
He blinked.
Stacy looked like she was about to choke from trying to hold back laughter.
Johnny tried to cross his arms, but they instead folded themselves neatly over his lap. He lifted his napkin, dabbing at his mouth with the same dainty precision he’d seen in cartoons.
The food came, and he ate in silence. Every gesture felt automatic. Fork held gently, pinky slightly raised. Small bites. Occasional hums of appreciation. A giggle even slipped out at one of Stacy’s dumb jokes—and he hated how natural it felt.
This wasn’t just acting. It was becoming instinct.
When they finally left the café, a toddler sitting nearby gasped loudly and pointed, tugging on her mom’s sleeve.
"Mommy, it’s the princess!"
Johnny’s heart twisted.
He didn’t hesitate. He bent ever so slightly at the knees and waved delicately, smiling with a warmth that felt frighteningly genuine.
"Hello, sweetheart!"   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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