Sir Mop 02 – The Prince, the Shorts, and the Existential Crisis

I tossed him the biggest pair of shorts I could find—probably my brother’s, stolen years ago and stuffed in the back of my closet for emergencies like this. Or, you know, mop princes.

Max examined them like they were a puzzle. “This is the royal attire of the common age?” he asked, holding them up like they might start speaking.

“Just put them on, Shakespeare.”

To his credit, he did. With effort. The waistband barely stretched past his thighs, the hem stopping far too high on his legs. But he managed. Barely.

Covered was a generous word.

He stepped out of the bathroom still shirtless, still barefoot, still fully owning the space like he was about to give a speech on the importance of divine monarchy in modern civilization.

And he didn’t even look embarrassed. Not once. Just casually wandered around the apartment like he hadn’t exploded into existence in his birthday suit less than an hour ago.

I sat on the arm of the couch, watching him from the corner of my eye.

God, the man had structure. Shoulders like an action figure, abs like someone had sketched them in with perfect lighting. I wasn’t checking him out. Not really. Just… wondering. Was this low body fat? Genetics? Carb cycling? Did mop princes eat clean or was this purely magical maintenance?

He paused beside the coffee table, pointing at my phone.

“What is this glowing device?”

“That’s my phone.”

He squinted. “For…”

“Communication.”

He sniffed it like it might bite him and moved on.

He examined the TV next.

“This… this is a scrying mirror?”

“Let’s just say it is.”

He moved to the fridge.

“A containment spell for food, I presume?”

“Cold storage.”

“And this?!” he exclaimed, pointing at the stove like it had insulted his lineage.

“Heat source. For cooking.”

Max turned in a full circle, face full of tragedy, arms spread wide like he was about to sing. “This realm is absurd. It mocks logic and dignity. And yet… it is curiously efficient.”

I didn’t reply. Just kept watching him pace in those barely-there shorts, towel still draped like a royal cape. He was muttering about kingdoms and curses and reclaiming lost glory, but I was only half-listening. Mostly because he stopped right in front of me.

Close.

Very close.

Close enough that I could smell him.

Wood. Dust. A hint of lavender. Maybe some old castle air.

And… mop.

He looked down at me with regal concern.

“Perhaps,” he said gravely, “I should cleanse myself.”

I blinked.

“Shower,” I replied, voice dry. “Yes. You should absolutely shower.”

Max emerged from the bathroom looking… slightly more civilized.

The tiny shorts were still holding on for dear life, but now he had one of my brother’s old muscle tees stretched tight across his chest. It fit—technically—but it also clashed horrendously with the towel he still wore like a cape. Mismatched colors. Overexposed thighs. And still barefoot.

He looked like he had just lost a fight with a laundromat.

I didn’t say a word. Just grabbed the nearest blanket and tossed it at him.

He caught it with grace—because of course he did—and without hesitation, shrugged off the towel. It hit the floor like a fallen flag. Then, with a spin only a cursed prince could pull off, he draped the blanket around himself and clutched it at the chest like it was woven with royal insignia.

I sank into the couch and finally exhaled.

Okay. This was happening. This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. I had a cursed prince pacing my living room. A magical one. Possibly immortal. Possibly delusional. Definitely sparkly.

I stared at him, thinking about the consequences of keeping him. Like an exotic pet. A very loud, muscular pet with a superiority complex and zero understanding of how fridges work.

“Alright,” I said, sitting up. “You’re here. You’re clothed, barely. I need information.”

He turned toward me with great ceremony, as though I’d summoned him to the throne room.

“Tell me about yourself. What happened to you? Why were you…” I gestured vaguely, “…a mop?”

Max frowned like the question offended him on a spiritual level. “That is… a mystery. One even I do not fully grasp.”

“Shocker.”

“I am a prince,” he began, placing a hand to his chest. “The firstborn son of Everhart. A land of golden towers, war-hardened knights, and ballads sung in my name.”

“So… a rich jock with a crown?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Go on.”

“I was not merely a prince,” he continued, eyes now distant, wistful. “I was a knight. A warrior. Feared and adored across the realm. My name alone could silence a battlefield.”

“Cool,” I said. “But you still don’t know how you became a mop?”

“No.” His voice dipped lower. “One day, I was flesh and blood. The next, I was… strands and splinters. A handle. A head. Bound by bristles. It was as if the world had conspired to erase me.”

“Huh,” I said, crossing my arms. “And nobody warned you? No glowing prophecy? No evil witch monologue?”

He looked vaguely insulted. “I was admired. Desired. Praised. Who would curse a man such as I?”

I gave him a long look.

“Maybe someone you ignored,” I said. “Or used. Or hurt without even noticing.”

Max’s brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. His bravado cracked, just a little.

“I… I never meant—” he stopped. “I did not… mistreat anyone.”

I tilted my head. “Not on purpose doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, staring down at his mismatched outfit like it suddenly weighed a hundred pounds.

“So what,” I said, pushing on. “You got cursed, turned into a mop, and waited how long for someone to pick you up and put you under a faucet?”

“I do not know how long it has been. I remember dreams. Fragments. Cold rooms. Darkness. And once… someone nearly dragged me across the floors of a public latrine.”

I cringed. “Damn.”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “It was my lowest hour.”

We were quiet for a moment.

I leaned back against the couch, arms crossed loosely. “So what now? You’re just… not a mop anymore?”

He hesitated. “It appears so.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I do not know,” he admitted, a flicker of frustration tightening his jaw. “Perhaps the curse is broken. Or… perhaps it’s only paused.”

“That’s comforting,” I sighed. “So you might turn back into a mop tomorrow?”

“I said perhaps.”

“Right. Good to know the magic system is built entirely on vibes.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You mock, but you do not understand what you’ve invited into your life.”

“Oh no,” I said, deadpan. “A hot, homeless, dramatic prince is exactly what I needed this week.”

He crossed his arms, adjusting the blanket like a monarch in exile. “I may have lost my kingdom, but I have not lost my pride.”

“Mm.” I reached for the remote. “Mystery curse or not, you’re not sleeping on my bed. Let’s start there.”