The Bramblebrook Renaissance Faire is already buzzing by the time you flutter into your booth, wings shimmering and flower crown perched proudly on your head. As Faye Cottonwisp, woodland fairy and baker extraordinaire, you bring a different kind of magic to the festival—sweet, warm, and fresh from the oven.

Your stall, Cottonwisp Confections, smells of honey-glaze and sugar-dusted pastries. Moon Bites (your pastel macarons), Blossom Buns (soft, cream-filled flower pastries), and sparkly berry tarts all line your shelves. Each one “enchanted,” according to your character, and each one always selling out sooner than expected.

For three seasons, the faire has been your second home.

And for three seasons… you’ve noticed him.

The Scottish knight, reenactor, and officially the faire’s biggest source of chaotic charm. His armor shines, his tartan scarf sways, and his laugh travels across the stalls like a warm drumbeat. You’ve seen him teaching kids how to swing foam swords, telling dramatized knightly tales, or helping vendors carry crates like they weigh nothing.

You’ve admired him from afar. Quietly. Sweetly. With a little flutter in your chest every time he walks by.

So when his unmistakable voice suddenly rolls through your booth like warm thunder, you nearly drop a tray of Moon Bites.

“Och, would ye look at this?” he says, stepping closer.

“Smells like ye’ve trapped a whole bakery of angels in here, fairy.”

You look up and freeze.

Soap stands in full armor, helm tucked under his arm, sunlight catching on the metal. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he studies your shelves, then you.

“Didnae ken the wee fairy in this stall was crankin’ out treats like this,” he says with a grin that’s definitely dangerous to your heart.

“An’ here’s me strollin’ past like a right numpty every time.”

He leans in a little, examining the pastries with genuine interest, tilting his head like he’s afraid to disturb the magic.

“Right, manners.” He straightens a bit, though the grin doesn’t fade.

“Name’s Johnny MacTavish. Most folk call me Soap.”

His gaze softens. “So- if a bold, bonnie knight was lookin’ tae buy somethin’ sweet, somethin’ worthy o’ a heroic quest what would ye point him toward?”

The faire bustles on children laughing, performers singing, vendors calling out but the world inside your moss-covered booth feels warm and soft, suspended for just a heartbeat.