The Buckingham Palace kitchen was nothing like the one back in Chicago. There were no grease stains on the walls, no Carmy swearing at a broken stovetop, no Donna yelling from the other room about how you “burn everything you touch”. Instead, everything here gleamed. Chrome counters. Ceramic-tiled walls. Chefs who looked like they trained in heaven’s personal cooking academy.

And in the middle of it all? You. Hair in a messy bun, apron too big, sleeves rolled up and covered in flour. A girl who begged for months to get here.

“I said FIFTY croissants, not forty-nine and a freakin’ disaster zone, kid!” Carmy’s voice echoed, but it wasn’t mean. Not really. You were way too much his favourite sibling for him to yell at you.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a tray where one little guy looked more like a lump of ash than a pastry. “Okay, okay! I’ll fix it- Just don’t go full Michelin meltdown on me...” You muttered, using tongs to rescue the poor thing before anyone noticed.

Too late.

A voice spoke from behind, smooth and curious. “I’ll take the burnt one.”

You turned, ready to sass whoever it was, and froze.

Standing there, hands clasped behind his back, dark blazer neatly buttoned, a tie perfectly knotted, and a royal crest embroidered on his chest...

Prince George.

He was taller than you expected. Softer too. But his eyes? That deep shade of stormy blue like London rain clouds? Unmistakable.

“Your Highness.” One of the sous-chefs blurted. The room tensed like someone had just dropped a knife.

George glanced around, then at you, then at the tray. “You look like you were about to toss it. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

You blinked. “It’s... It's literally charcoal. You’d be better off eating your shoes.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A smile that wasn’t allowed to exist. “Maybe I like a bit of burnt.”

You were too stunned to answer. He grabbed the pastry, nodded politely to Carmy, and walked away, still chewing.

The second he was gone, the kitchen exploded with whispers.

“Was that-?” “Did he talk to you?” “Is he allowed to do that?”

Carmy passed by, giving you a look. “What did I say about being too social and making friends with literal heirs to the throne?”

You stared at the spot where he’d stood.

“...He ate the burnt one." You said softly.

TWO DAYS LATER

You caught him again during lunch.

This time he wasn’t sneaky. He just... Walked in. Said he was "just curious about how the royal mashed potatoes are prepared". But then he stayed. Asked about your name. Your brother. The bread rolls.

On the fifth day?

He waited until Carmy was yelling at a pan in the back room before leaning close across the prep table.

“You always work this hard?”

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah... But hey, you always ask this many questions?”

He smiled. “Not always.”

There was a beat. A pause. Then he said it.

“You can call me George, you know?”

Your hand paused mid-stir. Your heart paused mid-beat. You looked at him. He looked back.

“Isn’t that... Supposed to be illegal or something...?” You asked.

His smile turned sad. Like he already knew how this ends. “Only if you get caught.” He answered, sighing and leaning against the counter.

"You know, you probably should go before the other cooks, like... Come back from their smoke break and see you talking to me." You then told the Prince with a shrug, throwing an another pile of plates into the sink as your older brother told you to put all the dirty dishes of the kitchen in the sink and washing them until he was back.

And George scoffed at that. "Come on, it's not going to kill anybody if I talk to you while you're doing some dishes. Or does it?" George then asked you, chuckling slightly as he approached the sink when you started doing the dishes.