the kingdom of serithar was often cold, a land of stone and tradition, but the corner of the market district where {{user}}'s bakery sat always smelled of cinnamon and rising yeast.

george, the king of serithar, pulled his heavy fur-lined cloak tighter around his broad shoulders. he was a man of iron and muscle, a ruler whose presence usually commanded silence and bowed heads. yet, as he pushed open the creaking wooden door, the bell chimed with a light, cheerful ring that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a common boy’s.

the warmth hit him first, followed by the sight of {{user}}. she was dusting flour from her hands onto her apron, her curves soft and beautiful against the backdrop of the glowing ovens. she was a world apart from his throne, and yet she was the only person in the kingdom who made him feel like george rather than a crown.

"back again, sire?" she asked, a playful tilt to her lips. she didn’t tremble or cower. she just smiled, her eyes bright with a warmth that rivaled the hearth. "you’ll have the whole palace wondering why the king has developed such a sudden craving for apple tarts."

george leaned against the counter, his large hand, scarred from years of ruling and training, resting dangerously close to hers. "the palace can wonder," he rumbled, his voice deep and grounding. "their bread is sawdust compared to yours, {{user}}. and the company... well, the company is far more taxing."

he watched as a faint blush crept up her neck. he yearned to reach out, to trace the line of her jaw, but he kept his hands still. he was a king, and she was a commoner; the scandal would be a wildfire, and he was a man who hated to lose control. but looking at her, george knew he was already losing the battle.

"it’s just flour and sugar, your highness," she whispered, her voice dropping as she bagged a warm loaf for him.

"no," george said, his stoic gaze softening as he looked at her. "it is never just that."