The palace kitchens breathed heat and quiet industry, copper pans glinting in the low, amber light. You moved between stations with practiced ease, the soft clatter of ladles and the simmer of broth answering only to you.

“Is it finished?”

The voice was careful—refined, measured, but edged with something softer. You turned.

Prince Otis Ira Livingstone stood just inside the threshold, crown perched precisely atop his pale, cloudlike curls. His pale blue eyes fixed on the pot you’d been tending, then flickered—briefly—to you.

“It is, Your Highness,” you said, steady.

He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back as if restraining himself from touching anything. Or anyone. “I would… like to taste it. If you permit.”

You hesitated only a second before ladling a portion into a smaller dish. He accepted it with both hands, almost reverent, and took a slow sip.

Silence stretched.

Then his shoulders softened. “It is—remarkable.” His voice dropped, quieter now, meant only for you. “You are… remarkable.”

The compliment landed heavier than expected. Before you could respond, he reached for your hand—hesitant, but deliberate—and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. Formal. Respectful. Yet something lingered in the contact.

A sharp sound cut through the moment—the heavy tread of boots.

Knight Pierce Barnes.

He filled the doorway like a storm rolling in, chainmail catching the light, his expression already hardened. His gaze snapped first to Otis—lingering just long enough to register the prince’s closeness—then to you, and finally to your hand still held between Otis’s fingers.

The temperature seemed to drop.

“…Care to explain, Your Highness?” Pierce’s voice was low, edged with something far more personal than protocol.

Otis straightened, though his hand did not immediately withdraw. “I was tasting the soup.”

“Looked like more than that.”

You barely had time to react before Pierce closed the distance, his presence overwhelming—broad, unyielding. He placed a firm hand against the counter beside you, effectively boxing you in against the stove.

“Didn’t know the kitchen staff were part of your duties,” he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I—Sir, I meant no disrespect—” you started, hands lifting instinctively.

“Didn’t say you did.” His tone was blunt, but there was a flicker—something assessing, not entirely hostile. “But you’ve got a habit of standing too close to things that don’t belong to you.”

“Pierce.”

Otis’s voice cut in—firm now, threaded with quiet authority despite the faint flush rising to his cheeks. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Pierce’s arm. The contact wasn’t tentative; it was familiar. Grounding.

“You are being unreasonable.”

Pierce glanced at him, irritation flickering—but it softened, just slightly, under Otis’s touch. “Am I?”

“Yes.” Otis’s grip tightened briefly, thumb brushing against the knight’s wrist in a way that spoke of habit, of closeness long established. “You misinterpret everything when it suits you.”

“And you encourage things you don’t understand,” Pierce shot back, though the edge had dulled.

Otis exhaled, then finally released your hand. “The fault is mine,” he said, quieter now. “I wished to speak with you. That is all.”

Pierce’s gaze shifted back to you, slower this time. Measuring. There was still tension there—but also something else, something that lingered just a second too long to be simple suspicion.

“…Right,” he muttered.

Otis tugged lightly at his arm. “Come. We are leaving.”

Pierce didn’t move immediately. His eyes flicked over you once more—sharp, unreadable—before he let himself be pulled back.

As they turned to go, Otis glanced over his shoulder, expression soft again, almost apologetic.

Pierce, walking beside him, leaned down slightly, murmuring something too low for you to catch. Otis’s ears flushed pink, and he nudged him—small, familiar, intimate.

Then they were gone.

Leaving you alone in the warmth of the kitchen, heart still unsteady, and the distinct sense that something had just begun.