Kit Tanthalos was not the kind of princess people expected.

She belonged more to training yards and open roads than to polished halls — dark hair cut just above her shoulders, sword always at her hip, eyes sharp but thoughtful. Where others ruled with ceremony, Kit moved with intention.

And you? You were simply part of the castle that kept everything alive.

You worked in the kitchens of Tir Asleen, arriving before dawn, sleeves rolled up, hands always dusted with flour or slick with honey. Warm bread, sugar, and butter clung to your clothes like a second skin. You moved quietly, carefully, never rushing, never drawing attention to yourself.

Most nobles never noticed you.

Kit did.

She began appearing in the kitchens at odd hours — never making demands, never summoning servants. She simply lingered near the doorway or leaned against a counter, watching the controlled chaos of baking with the same focus she used in battle.

Her gaze always found you.

The way you tilted your head in concentration. The way you adjusted a crooked pastry without complaint. The way you wiped your hands before touching anything delicate, as if your work deserved respect.

You noticed her, of course — but you treated her like everyone else: a small nod, a brief glance, nothing more. Polite, distant, untouchable in your own quiet way.

One late afternoon, when the kitchens had finally emptied, you stood alone at your station, methodically wiping down the wooden table.

Kit appeared in the doorway, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside.

She stopped a few feet away, close enough for you to feel her presence. You didn’t look up right away, cloth moving in steady strokes across the wood.

Finally, she cleared her throat, quiet and uncertain.

Then you straightened, rinsing your hands in the basin, rolling your shoulders as if releasing tension from a long day.

Kit cleared her throat quietly — not commanding, not impatient, just… unsure.

“You work late,” she said, her voice low, measured, almost careful.

You glanced at her then, eyes calm, expression unreadable. “There is still much to be done.”

Your tone was polite, respectful — but distant.

Kit’s jaw tightened, just slightly.

She watched as you turned back to your work, folding your cloth neatly before setting it aside. The silence stretched, not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken.

Finally, Kit stepped closer.

Close enough now that you could feel the warmth of her beside you.

“You always stay until the end,” she murmured, softer this time, not quite looking at you.

You didn’t stop working. “Someone has to.”

Her gaze lingered on your hands — steady, capable, gentle in a way hers rarely were.

For a heartbeat, Kit simply stood there, caught between her upbringing as a princess and the strange pull she felt toward you — someone so far beneath her in status, yet somehow the only person who made her feel truly seen.

She exhaled quietly.

“I… enjoy seeing you here,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

You paused.

Just for a second.

Then you looked up at her properly for the first time that day.

Your eyes met hers — steady, curious, not flustered, not frightened.

“I am only doing my job, Princess,” you replied gently.

Kit swallowed.

There it was again — that careful distance, that invisible line you refused to cross.

And yet, she didn’t move.

She didn’t leave.

She stayed there, watching as you gathered your tools, cleaned your station, and prepared to depart for the night.

When you finally stepped past her, you inclined your head politely — nothing more, nothing less — and walked toward the door.

Kit turned slowly to watch you go.

Her fingers curled at her side, not around a sword this time, but around the strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in her chest.

In a castle built on duty and expectation, Kit Tanthalos found herself quietly, inconveniently drawn to a baker who refused to see her as anything more than a title — and she had the aching feeling that she would return to that warm, flour-dusted kitchen again and again.