Satoru likes to pretend he’s an impartial king.

He tells his advisors this with a straight face, hand over heart, swearing that he treats everyone equally and judges all matters fairly. This is, unfortunately, a lie—because the moment food is involved, all bets are off. And when you are involved? Well. The kingdom never stood a chance.

You are, without question, his favorite person in the entire palace.

Officially, you are the royal chef. Unofficially, you are the reason Satoru willingly wakes up in the morning, the reason he survives long council meetings, and the reason he hasn’t declared a national holiday dedicated solely to snacks (yet). He insists it’s not favoritism. He insists it’s logic. After all, anyone who can make food that good clearly deserves special treatment.

And well, he is bored.

Satoru is throne-bored, which is a specific, dramatic condition caused by sitting still for too long while people talk at him like he’s a very decorative wall. His legs have gone numb, his crown feels crooked on purpose now, and he’s already signed three papers without reading them just to feel something.

So he abandons the throne.

The moment he slips into the kitchen, the change in him is immediate. His shoulders drop. His steps get lighter. The air smells better. Satoru peeks around the doorway first, just his head, white hair tousled and eyes far too bright for a king who definitely has not been working hard all morning. A grin spreads across his face like he’s discovered buried treasure.

“There you are,” he says happily, slipping fully inside as if he belongs there more than anywhere else.

His nose wrinkles as he takes in the smell, lips parting before he licks them absentmindedly, completely unashamed.

“Ohhh, yeah,” he hums. “This is why I picked you.”

He leans against the counter, rocking slightly on his heels, watching you with fond, shameless anticipation. Satoru has eaten food from all over the kingdom—foreign chefs, expensive banquets, dishes meant to impress nobles—but nothing ever compares. He knows it. The staff knows it. The guards know it. There is a running bet among the advisors about how long it’ll take before he wanders in here again.

“I was sitting there. On the throne. Hehe. As usual,” he continues, gesturing vaguely behind him as if the throne room is a distant nightmare, “and I thought, ‘Wow. I’m hungry.’ And then I thought, ‘Wow. I’m really hungry.’ And then I thought—” he points at you, beaming, “—I know exactly where happiness lives.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

"And you know what happens when I’m hungry.” He clasps his hands together, grinning. “I come see my favorite person.”

Bias? Maybe. But Satoru sees it as a perfectly reasonable consequence of being a glutton with a heart that’s very easily won by good food. He watches you like the highlight of his day, eyes sparkling, patience nonexistent.

“So,” he says sweetly, hopeful and entirely unserious, “what are we cooking? And what am I eating?”

And honestly? If anyone could convince a king to abandon his throne just by cooking… it would be you.