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Chapter Text

The bruise on Michael's ribs throbbed with each step as he made his way down the cobblestone street, his bare feet finding purchase in the familiar grooves worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. The summer heat pressed against his thin frame, making the stolen shirt cling uncomfortably to his back where fresh welts still stung from last night's beating. He'd failed to bring back enough money from his pickpocketing yesterday—three euros short of what his father had demanded—and the old man had made sure he understood the consequences.

But none of that mattered now. Not when the scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries began to drift through the air, promising sanctuary in the form of Mimi Bakery's weathered storefront.

Michael quickened his pace despite the protest from his bruised body. The bakery had become his refuge over the past few weeks, ever since he'd discovered that the elderly woman who ran it would slip him day-old rusks without asking questions or demanding payment upfront. She never looked at him with the mixture of pity and disgust he was used to seeing in adults' eyes. Instead, she treated him like any other customer, as if a twelve-year-old boy with hollow cheeks and clothes that hung loose on his undernourished frame was perfectly normal.

The familiar blue and white striped awning came into view, and Michael felt something in his chest ease—a tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. But as he approached the window where he usually placed his order, something was different.

Instead of the old lady's weathered hands and kind eyes, a girl about his own age stood behind the glass, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and a small apron tied around her waist. She looked up as he approached, and Michael caught sight of bright, curious eyes that seemed to take in everything at once—his rumpled clothes, his bare feet, the way he held himself like he expected a blow to fall at any moment.

Her expression shifted from curiosity to something that might have been disapproval.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice carrying a crisp politeness that made Michael immediately defensive. He'd heard that tone before—from shopkeepers who watched him like a hawk, from adults who crossed the street when they saw him coming.

"Rusks," he said simply, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets where a few stolen coins clinked together. "The usual."

The girl frowned, glancing down at what he assumed was a menu. "Rusks aren't on here. Are you sure you don't mean—"

"I always get rusks," Michael interrupted, irritation flaring in his chest. Who was this girl to question him? The old woman never made things difficult. "Just... get them."

"I can't sell you something that's not on the menu," she replied, crossing her arms. "You need to order something properly."

Michael felt his jaw clench. Of course. Of course the one place that had offered him any kind of consistency would suddenly become complicated. This girl with her clean apron and judgmental stare was just like everyone else—ready to turn him away the moment things didn't fit into neat, proper categories.

"Look," he started, his voice taking on the hard edge he'd learned from too many encounters with adults who saw him as nothing more than a potential threat, "I don't know who you are, but I've been coming here for weeks. The old lady always—"

"What's all this fuss about?"

Both children turned as the old lady appeared behind the counter, her flour-dusted apron and warm smile exactly as Michael remembered. Relief flooded through him so suddenly he felt dizzy.

"Oma," the girl said, turning to the older woman with obvious affection, "this boy is asking for rusks, but they're not on the menu. I told him he needed to order something else, but—"

The grandmother made a soft tutting sound and gently swatted at the girl's shoulder. "Show some respect," she said, though her tone was playful rather than scolding. "He's our most important guest."

Michael watched as the girl's eyes widened, clearly taken aback. "Most important?"

The grandmother's eyes twinkled as she looked between the girl and Michael, and he had the distinct feeling she was about to say something that would change the entire dynamic of this encounter.

"Why," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "he's a prince. It's our honor to serve him."

The silence that followed was so complete that Michael could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. A prince. Him. The boy whose father used him as a punching bag, who stole food to survive, who hadn't had a proper bath in weeks. The absurdity of it should have made him laugh, but instead, he found himself watching the girl's reaction with something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.

Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The suspicious frown melted away, replaced by wide-eyed wonder and what looked like genuine excitement.

"A prince?" she breathed, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. "A real prince?"

Michael opened his mouth to correct her—to tell her it was obviously a joke, that princes didn't exist outside of the fairy tales his father had beaten out of him years ago. But something in her expression stopped him. There was such genuine belief there, such earnest fascination, that the words died in his throat.

"Of course," the grandmother continued smoothly, already moving to gather ingredients for his rusks. "Princes come in all forms, you know. Sometimes they wear crowns, sometimes they wear..." she gestured vaguely at Michael's worn clothing, "more practical attire."

The girl nodded seriously, as if this made perfect sense. "That's why I didn't recognize him," she said, more to herself than to anyone else. "I should have known. Oma always says to look deeper than appearances."

Michael felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. The way she was looking at him now—with respect, with interest, with something that wasn't pity or fear—it was almost worse than the suspicion. At least suspicion was honest. This was built on a lie so ridiculous he couldn't understand how anyone could believe it.

"I..." he started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? That he wasn't a prince, just a kid whose own mother hadn't wanted him enough to stick around? That the closest thing he'd ever had to royalty was the deck of playing cards his father used to gamble away what little money they had?

"I'm sorry I was rude earlier, Your Highness," the girl said suddenly, offering him a small curtsy that made something in Michael's stomach lurch. "I didn't realize. I'm just here for the summer, visiting Oma, and I don't know all the regular customers yet."

"It's... fine," Michael managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. He cleared his throat and looked toward the grandmother, who was now pulling fresh rusks from the oven. "Just the usual."

"Of course," the grandmother said, wrapping the warm pastries in paper. "Though perhaps our prince would like to try something new today? My granddaughter here has been learning to make Streuselkuchen. It's quite good."

"I made it myself this morning," the girl—the granddaughter—added eagerly. "Well, Oma helped with the dough, but I did all the streusel topping. It's probably not as good as what you're used to in your palace, but—"

"I don't live in a palace," Michael said quickly, then immediately regretted it when he saw the confusion that flickered across her face.

"Oh," she said, tilting her head. "A castle then?"

Michael stared at her. She was completely serious. This girl, who looked intelligent enough, who spoke with the kind of educated accent that suggested she came from a good family, genuinely believed that he—a twelve-year-old pickpocket with holes in his shoes—was royalty.

"Something like that," he heard himself say, and immediately wanted to take it back. Why was he playing along with this? Why wasn't he just telling her the truth and walking away?

But the grandmother was already handing him his rusks, along with a small piece of the Streuselkuchen wrapped in another paper, and the girl was beaming at him like he'd just granted her the greatest honor of her life.

"It's on the house," the grandmother said with a wink. "For our prince."

Michael took the pastries, noting absently that they were still warm and that the Streuselkuchen smelled like cinnamon and butter—nothing like the stale bread and whatever scraps he could steal that made up his usual diet. He fumbled in his pocket for coins, but the grandmother waved him away.

"Princes don't pay at Mimi Bakery," she said firmly. "It's tradition."

Another lie, but one that meant he could save his few stolen euros for later. Michael nodded stiffly and turned to go, but the girl's voice stopped him.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" she asked, and there was something almost anxious in her tone. "I mean, if you're not too busy with... prince things?"

Michael looked back at her. She was wringing her hands in her apron, and he realized she was nervous. Nervous about whether he—a supposed prince—would want to see her again. The irony was so sharp it nearly made him laugh.

"Maybe," he said, which seemed to satisfy her because she smiled—a real smile, bright and genuine in a way that made something in his chest ache.

"Good," she said. "I'll practice making better rusks tonight. Ones that are worthy of a prince."

Michael left the bakery with his pastries and a head full of confusion. He found his usual spot—a narrow alley between two apartment buildings where he could eat in peace—and unwrapped the rusks first. They were perfect, as always: golden-brown and slightly sweet, with just the right amount of crunch. But it was the Streuselkuchen that really surprised him.

It was easily the best thing he'd ever tasted.

The cake was soft and buttery, the streusel topping crispy and sweet with hints of cinnamon and maybe vanilla. It dissolved on his tongue in a way that made him close his eyes and forget, for just a moment, about the bruises on his ribs and the dreaded return home that awaited him.

She had made this. That girl with her bright eyes and genuine smile had made something this good with her own hands, and she'd given it to him because she thought he was a prince.

Michael finished the last crumb and crumpled the papers in his fist. This was dangerous territory. He couldn't afford to get attached to anything, especially not to some rich girl's fantasy about who he was. In a few weeks, she'd probably go back to wherever she came from, and he'd be left with nothing but the memory of what it felt like to be looked at like he mattered.

But even as he told himself this, he was already thinking about tomorrow. About whether she'd really try to make better rusks, about what other things she might have baked, about the way she'd smiled when he said maybe.

 

The sun was beginning to set by the time Michael made his way back to the apartment he shared with his father. The familiar dread settled in his stomach as he climbed the stairs, listening for sounds that might indicate what kind of mood the old man was in. But for once, the apartment was quiet when he slipped inside.

His father was passed out on the couch, empty bottles scattered around him and the smell of stale alcohol thick in the air. Michael moved carefully through the small space, avoiding the creaky floorboard by the kitchen and the pile of clothes that hadn't been washed in weeks.

In his tiny corner of the bedroom, he pulled out his soccer ball—the one thing he'd ever bought for himself, the one possession his father hadn't managed to sell or destroy yet. He held it in his lap and thought about the girl at the bakery, about her earnest belief in something that was obviously impossible.

A prince. She thought he was a prince.

Michael looked down at his dirty hands, at the soccer ball that was scuffed and losing air but still somehow perfect in his eyes. If he was a prince, then this ball was his crown jewel. If he was a prince, then tomorrow he could go back to the bakery and let her fuss over him, let her make him rusks and smile at him like he was something worth smiling at.

It was a fantasy, just like her belief in his royal status. But maybe... maybe fantasies weren't always bad things. Maybe sometimes they were the only thing that made it possible to get through another day.

Michael tucked the ball under his thin pillow and settled down to sleep, trying to ignore the sound of his father's snoring and the gnawing ache in his empty stomach. Tomorrow, he decided, he would go back to the bakery. Not because he believed the grandmother's lie, but because for one brief moment today, he'd felt like someone other than the unwanted son of a drunk and a woman who'd abandoned him before he could even walk.

Tomorrow, he would be a prince again.

 

The next morning brought another beating—his father had woken up in a rage about something Michael couldn't even identify—but it also brought the promise of warm rusks and a girl who would look at him like he mattered. Michael endured the blows with the kind of detached patience he'd developed over the years, counting down the minutes until he could escape to the bakery.

When he finally arrived, limping slightly from where his father's boot had connected with his shin, she was already waiting at the window. Her face lit up when she saw him, and Michael felt that same strange twist in his chest from yesterday.

"Your Highness!" she called out, waving him over with flour-covered hands. "I've been practicing!"

She held up a tray of rusks, each one perfectly golden and shaped with obvious care. "I got up early to make sure they were ready when you arrived. Do they look princely enough?"

Michael stared at the rusks, then at her eager face, then back at the rusks. No one had ever gotten up early for him before. No one had ever cared enough to practice something just to make him happy.

"They look fine," he said, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

Her face fell slightly at his lukewarm response, and Michael immediately felt like he'd kicked a puppy.

"I mean," he added quickly, "they look... good. Really good."

The smile returned, brighter than before. "I'm so glad! I was worried they wouldn't be special enough. Oma says that princes are used to the finest things, and I've only been baking for a few weeks, but I really wanted to make something worthy of—"

"You don't have to do that," Michael interrupted, then immediately wished he hadn't when she looked confused.

"Do what?"

"Make special things. For me." The words came out wrong, sharper than he'd meant them to be. "I'm not... I don't need special treatment."

She tilted her head, studying him with those bright, perceptive eyes. "But you're a prince. Of course you deserve special treatment. Everyone deserves to feel special sometimes."

The simple statement hit him like a physical blow. Everyone deserves to feel special sometimes. When was the last time Michael had felt special? When was the last time anyone had made an effort for him, had thought he was worth getting up early for?

Never, he realized. The answer was never.

"Besides," she continued, apparently oblivious to his internal crisis, "I like baking. And I like having someone to bake for. Back home, it's just me and my parents, and they're always too busy with work to really notice what I make. But you actually eat everything and seem to enjoy it, so it makes me happy to make things for you."

Michael stared at her. Here was this girl—this clearly well-loved, well-cared-for girl—and she was happy to have someone to bake for. She was happy to fuss over him, to get up early and practice making rusks, because it gave her purpose.

He thought about his own mornings, about waking up to his father's shouting or the crash of empty bottles being knocked over. About stealing breakfast from unsuspecting tourists or going without food entirely if his father had gambled away their money the night before. About the constant awareness that he was unwanted, unworthy, a burden that everyone would be better off without.

And here she was, treating him like his presence in her day was a gift.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked, surprised by the question. "Oh! I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself yesterday. I'm—" She told him her name, and it sounded pretty and normal and everything his own name wasn't. When his father was drunk enough, sometimes he'd mutter about how much he hated that name, how it reminded him of her, how even the sound of it made him want to break something.

But when she said her name, it sounded like something light and sweet, like the rusks she made or the way sunlight looked filtering through the bakery window.

"I'm Michael," he said, then immediately regretted it. Princes probably had fancier names than Michael. They probably had titles and middle names and surnames that meant something important.

But she just smiled. "Michael," she repeated, like she was testing how it sounded. "That's a strong name. Very princely."

Michael almost laughed at that. If she only knew what his father thought of his name, how it was spat rather than spoken, used like a curse word in their apartment.

The grandmother appeared behind her then, carrying a fresh batch of something that smelled like vanilla and almonds.

"Good morning, Your Highness," she said with that same twinkling smile from yesterday. "I see my granddaughter has been hard at work preparing for your visit."

"She didn't have to," Michael said, but the grandmother waved him off.

"Nonsense. It's good for her to have a project. She gets bored easily during these summer visits." The older woman lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think she's been looking forward to your visits more than anything else this summer."

Michael glanced at the girl, who was now carefully arranging his rusks in a paper bag, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. She'd been looking forward to his visits. Him. The boy who stole from tourists and got beaten by his drunk father and hadn't had a proper conversation with someone his own age in months.

"Here," she said, handing him the bag along with another wrapped pastry. "I made Bienenstich today. It's got honey and almonds, and I thought you might like to try something different."

Michael took the offerings, noting again how warm they were, how much care had gone into their preparation. "Thank you," he said, and meant it more than he'd meant anything in a long time.

"Will you eat them here today?" she asked hopefully. "I mean, if you have time? I know you probably have important prince duties, but I thought maybe we could talk while you eat. I'd love to hear about your castle and your royal life."

Michael felt that familiar panic rise in his chest. She wanted to talk about his fake life, wanted details about a world that didn't exist. How long could he keep this up before she realized he was lying about everything?

But then he looked at her face—so eager, so genuinely interested in spending time with him—and found himself nodding.

"I have a few minutes," he said.

Her smile could have powered the entire bakery.

"Wonderful! There's a little table in the back garden where we can sit. Oma, is that okay?"

The grandmother nodded indulgently. "Of course, dear. Just don't keep our prince too long—I'm sure he has important matters to attend to."

Michael followed the girl through the bakery, past displays of bread and pastries that made his mouth water, past the ovens that radiated warmth and the smell of yeast and sugar that was already becoming synonymous with safety in his mind. The back garden was small but well-maintained, with a few tables scattered under the shade of an old apple tree.

She chose a table and waited for him to sit first, which struck him as oddly formal until he remembered that she thought he was royalty. Everything she did was colored by that belief—the way she served him, the way she spoke to him, even the way she sat across from him with her back straight and her hands folded politely in her lap.

Michael unwrapped the Bienenstich and took a bite. Like everything else she'd made, it was incredible—sweet and rich with the honey and almonds creating layers of flavor he'd never experienced before.

"It's good," he said, which seemed inadequate but was all he could manage.

She beamed. "Really? I was worried the honey might be too strong, but Oma said princes usually like rich flavors."

Another lie to add to the growing pile, but Michael just nodded and took another bite.

"So," she said, leaning forward slightly, "what's it like? Living in a castle, I mean. Do you have servants and horses and all that?"

Michael nearly choked on his pastry. This was exactly what he'd been dreading—the questions that would expose him as a fraud. But looking at her eager face, at the genuine curiosity and interest there, he found himself saying the first thing that came to mind.

"It's not really a castle," he said slowly. "More like... a manor. A small one."

She nodded seriously. "Of course. Not all royalty lives in huge castles. That would be impractical."

"Right," Michael agreed, relieved that she was willing to accept his modification. "It's just me and my... father. We don't need much space."

That, at least, was partially true.

"What about your mother?" she asked. "Is she a queen?"

The question hit him like a slap. Michael felt his jaw clench involuntarily, and he had to force himself to relax before answering.

"She's not around," he said finally.

Something in his tone must have warned her off because she didn't press the issue. Instead, she changed the subject to safer territory.

"Do you go to a special school for princes? Or do you have tutors?"

"Tutors," Michael said, latching onto the option that seemed less likely to involve details he couldn't fake. "Private ones."

It wasn't entirely a lie—his father had taught him things, just not the kind of things normal tutors would cover. How to pick pockets without being noticed. How to read people's moods and body language to avoid the worst beatings. How to make himself invisible when adults were looking for someone to blame.

They talked for nearly an hour, with her asking questions and Michael providing vague, carefully constructed answers that weren't quite lies but weren't quite truths either. She told him about her life in Berlin, about her parents who worked in finance and traveled frequently, about her school and her friends and the books she liked to read.

It was the most normal conversation Michael had ever had with someone his own age, and also the most terrifying. Every question felt like a potential trap, every moment like the one where she might suddenly realize that nothing about him added up to royalty.

But she never seemed to doubt him. If anything, her belief in his princely status only seemed to grow stronger as they talked. She hung on his every word, nodded seriously at his invented details about life in his imaginary manor, and seemed genuinely honored that he was spending time with her.

"I should go," Michael said finally, when the sun had moved enough that he knew his father would be waking up soon. "I have... responsibilities."

"Of course," she said, standing quickly. "I didn't mean to keep you so long. Thank you for telling me about your life. It sounds fascinating."

Fascinating. His life of abuse and theft and constant fear sounded fascinating to her because she thought it was something entirely different.

"Thank you for the food," he said, gathering up the empty wrappers. "It was really good."

"I'm so glad you liked it! I'll try something new tomorrow, if you're able to come back?"

There was that hopeful note in her voice again, that anxiety about whether he'd return. Michael looked at her face and felt something shift in his chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat and everything to do with the way she looked at him.

"I'll be back," he said, and meant it completely.

Her smile was radiant. "Wonderful! I can't wait to show you what I make next."

Michael left the bakery with a full stomach and a head full of confused thoughts. This girl—whose name he repeated to himself like a prayer—had spent an hour talking with him like he was the most interesting person in the world. She'd gotten up early to make him food, had practiced until her rusks were perfect, had listened to his carefully constructed lies about his fake royal life with complete fascination.

And for that hour, sitting in the garden under the apple tree with the taste of honey and almonds on his tongue, Michael had almost believed it himself. Had almost forgotten about the bruises hidden under his shirt and the dreaded return to his father's apartment. Had almost felt like the prince she believed him to be.

It was dangerous, this fantasy. He knew that. But as he walked through the streets toward home, Michael found himself already looking forward to tomorrow—to more questions he'd have to carefully answer, to more food made with care and attention, to more time spent being looked at like he mattered.

Tomorrow, he would be a prince again. And maybe, if he was careful enough with his lies and lucky enough to avoid exposure, he could be a prince for the rest of the summer.

It was more hope than Michael had allowed himself to feel in years, and it terrified him almost as much as it thrilled him.

Chapter Text

By the fourth day, Michael had developed a routine.

He would arrive at the bakery precisely at ten in the morning, when the first batch of fresh rusks would be coming out of the oven. She would already be waiting at the window—always waiting, always with that bright smile that seemed to exist solely for him. The grandmother would make some comment about punctuality being a royal virtue, and she would present him with whatever new creation she'd attempted that morning alongside his beloved rusks.

And Michael, despite every rational thought in his head telling him this was temporary madness, had begun to enjoy it.

More than enjoy it, if he were being honest. He was starting to crave the way she fussed over him.

"Your Highness, you're right on time!" she called out as he approached the window, her voice carrying that familiar note of genuine delight. "I've been keeping your rusks warm in the oven."

Michael felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth—an expression that felt foreign on his face but was becoming more frequent during these morning visits. "Have you been waiting long?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. She was always waiting.

"Not long at all," she lied cheerfully, though he could see flour smudges on her apron that suggested she'd been up for hours. "I made Apfelstrudel today, but I wasn't sure if the apples were sweet enough for a prince's palate. Would you mind terribly testing it for me?"

The way she phrased it—as if tasting her food was some great favor he was doing her rather than the highlight of his increasingly bleak days—never failed to amaze him. Michael had grown up being told he was a burden, a mouth to feed that cost more than he was worth. Yet here she was, treating his opinion like it mattered, his presence like it was a gift.

"I suppose I could try it," he said, letting a hint of mock reluctance creep into his voice.

She giggled—actually giggled—at what she clearly interpreted as royal playfulness. "You're so kind to indulge me, Your Highness. I know you must have much more important things to do than sample a beginner's baking."

Something warm and dangerous unfurled in Michael's chest at her words. This was what it felt like to be important to someone. This was what it felt like to be wanted, anticipated, catered to. He could see now why adults surrounded themselves with people who told them what they wanted to hear—there was something intoxicating about being treated like you mattered.

"Well," he said, straightening his shoulders slightly and adopting what he imagined might be a more regal posture—something he'd been practicing after watching well-dressed people on the television displays in shop windows, studying their confident gestures and careful enunciation, "I do have royal duties to attend to later. But I suppose I can spare some time for inspection."

The words came out more refined than his usual speech, flavored with the formal cadence he'd been mimicking from those glimpses of period dramas and news broadcasts. He'd taken to loitering outside electronics stores whenever possible, absorbing the way wealthy characters held themselves, the particular way they shaped their vowels that suggested education and breeding he'd never possessed.

"Really? What kind of royal duties?" she asked eagerly, carefully wrapping his rusks in paper with the same reverence someone might show a crown jewel. "Do you have to make important decisions about your kingdom?"

Michael paused, realizing he'd painted himself into a corner with his newfound cockiness. But looking at her expectant face, he found he didn't want to disappoint her.

"Territory management," he said vaguely, which wasn't entirely a lie if he counted the various neighborhood corners where he'd established himself as a reliable pickpocket. "And... diplomatic relations."

"How fascinating!" she breathed. "I knew there was more to being a prince than just living in luxury. You actually have to work for your people."

The irony was so sharp it nearly made him laugh. His 'people' consisted of his violent drunk of a father, and his 'work' involved stealing enough to keep them both fed. But the way she said it—with such respect, such admiration—made something in him preen despite the absurdity.

"It's a heavy responsibility," he found himself saying, and was startled to realize he actually believed it. In a way, wasn't survival its own form of responsibility? Wasn't keeping himself and his father alive—barely, but alive nonetheless—a kind of kingdom management?

She handed him his food with a small bow that made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. "I'm honored that you take time from such important work to visit our humble bakery."

Humble. As if this warm, sweet-smelling sanctuary with its endless supply of fresh bread and genuine kindness was somehow lesser than the roach-infested apartment where he dodged his father's fists. Michael almost wanted to laugh at the backwards nature of it all.

"Your rusks are worth the interruption to my schedule," he said instead, and watched her face flush with pleasure at the compliment.

It was true, too. Of all the things she made for him—and she made him something new every day now—the rusks remained his absolute favorite. There was something about their simple perfection that spoke to him. They weren't trying to be fancy or impressive; they were just consistently, reliably good. Sweet without being cloying, substantial without being heavy, with that perfect golden exterior that crunched satisfyingly between his teeth.

"Should we sit in the garden again?" she asked. "I have so many questions about royal life, and I brought something special to show you today!"

Michael nodded, following her through the bakery with his precious cargo of food. But today, he wasn't the only one carrying something extra. Under his arm, wrapped carefully in an old towel, was his soccer ball.

He'd debated bringing it for the past two days, torn between wanting to share the one thing that was truly his and fear that it would somehow expose him as a fraud. What kind of prince played with a scuffed, partially deflated ball he'd bought on a whim? But something about her genuine interest in his life, her careful attention to everything he said, had made him want to offer her a piece of his real world.

Even if he couldn't tell her what it really represented.

They settled at their usual table under the apple tree, and Michael set his wrapped ball carefully beside his chair while she arranged his food with the same precision she might use for a state dinner.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said as he bit into his first rusk of the day, that familiar expression of perfect contentment crossing his features. "Do you celebrate holidays the same way we do? Like, does the Tooth Fairy visit princes?"

Michael nearly choked on his rusk. "The Tooth Fairy?"

"Well, yes," she said, looking suddenly uncertain. "I mean, I know you probably have much fancier visits than regular children. Maybe she brings gold coins instead of regular money? Or maybe royal teeth are worth more because of your noble bloodline?"

The earnest way she said it—as if royal dental value was a perfectly logical economic concept—made something twist in Michael's chest. She really believed all of it. The Tooth Fairy, the inherent superiority of royal teeth, the idea that there was some magical creature who cared enough about children to reward them for growing up.

Michael had lost his first tooth to one of his father's backhand slaps when he was seven. The tooth had skittered across their dirty kitchen floor, and he'd picked it up along with the blood, wondering if it was true what other kids at school said about putting it under your pillow. He'd tried it once, hiding the tooth under the thin, flat pillow on his mattress and lying awake all night listening for footsteps that never came.

In the morning, the tooth was still there. No coins, no magic, no acknowledgment that he'd lost a piece of himself and gotten nothing in return.

"The Tooth Fairy is... different for princes," he said carefully, not wanting to shatter her illusions but unable to lie outright about something so fundamentally untrue to his experience.

"I knew it!" she said triumphantly. "What about Santa Claus? Do you still get to make wishes, or do you have to request things through proper diplomatic channels?"

Santa Claus. Michael's chest tightened further. Another Christmas morning spent alone while his father slept off a three-day bender, another year of watching other children at school talk about their presents while he tried to make his stolen breakfast last until dinner.

"Santa is..." Michael started, then stopped. How could he explain to this girl who clearly still believed in magic that he'd stopped believing in anything good happening for free before he'd learned to tie his shoes? That his birthday fell on Christmas Day, making it doubly clear that no magical figure was coming to save him when even the supposed most wonderful day of the year brought nothing but his father's drunken rages and the echo of empty rooms?

"Oh!" she interrupted before he could finish. "Maybe it's classified royal information! I shouldn't pry into state secrets."

She was giving him an out, interpreting his hesitation as discretion rather than disillusionment. Michael felt simultaneously grateful and guilty.

"Something like that," he murmured, taking another bite of rusk to avoid further explanation.

"I lost a tooth just last month," she continued conversationally. "The Tooth Fairy brought me two euros and left the most beautiful note written in silver ink. My parents said it was because I'd been especially good about brushing my teeth."

Two euros and a note in silver ink. Michael tried to imagine a world where losing a part of yourself resulted in rewards rather than just more emptiness. A world where someone paid attention to whether you took care of yourself, where your small efforts were noticed and celebrated.

"That's... nice," he said, and meant it more than she could possibly know.

"Do you think she'll still visit me even though I'm spending the summer here instead of at home? I have another loose tooth, see?" She wiggled a incisor with her tongue, demonstrating its instability with the unconscious confidence of someone who had never doubted that good things would happen to her.

"I'm sure she'll find you," Michael said, and was surprised by how much he wanted it to be true. If anyone deserved visits from benevolent magical creatures, it was this girl who got up early to make perfect rusks and treated strange boys like they were princes.

"I hope so. I'm going to write her a letter tonight just in case, to let her know my temporary address." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Do you think magical creatures have trouble with international mail?"

The question was so ridiculous and so genuinely concerned that Michael felt something crack inside his chest—not painful, but like ice beginning to thaw.

"I don't think distance is a problem for magic," he heard himself say.

Her smile was radiant. "That's such a relief! I was worried she might not be able to find me."

Michael watched her face as she spoke about tooth fairies and Santa Claus and all the other impossible things she believed in with complete sincerity. There was something beautiful about that kind of faith, that absolute certainty that the world contained wonders specifically designed to take care of children like her.

He tried to remember if he'd ever believed in anything like that, but came up empty. Even his earliest memories were tinged with the awareness that he was on his own, that no one was coming to rescue him or reward him or even notice if he disappeared entirely.

Except now there was this girl, who noticed when he arrived each morning, who had been practicing her baking to make things worthy of his (imaginary) royal status, who worried about tooth fairies and international mail with equal seriousness.

"I brought something to show you too," he said suddenly, reaching for the towel-wrapped bundle beside his chair.

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. "Really? What is it?"

Michael hesitated for a moment, then carefully unwrapped his soccer ball. It looked even more pathetic in the bright garden sunlight—scuffed leather, faded logo, slightly lopsided from where it was losing air. Next to her perfect rusks and carefully maintained garden table, it looked like exactly what it was: a piece of trash that someone desperate had convinced themselves was treasure.

But her reaction wasn't what he expected.

"Oh!" she breathed, leaning forward to examine the ball with genuine interest. "Is this for royal sport? Do you play football?"

"Not-" Michael corrected automatically, then realized how strange it sounded to just have a ball to carry around. "I mean... yes."

"That's wonderful! I've never met anyone who could play properly. Is it different when you're a prince? Do you have a special field at your manor?"

Michael looked down at his ball, thinking of the countless hours he'd spent kicking it against the alley wall behind their apartment building, the way it had become his confidant and companion when he had no one else to talk to.

"I practice alone, mostly," he said quietly. "It's... peaceful."

Something in his tone must have conveyed more than his words because her expression softened.

"Would you show me?" she asked gently. "I mean, if you don't mind sharing your royal training techniques with a commoner?"

Michael felt that dangerous warmth spread through his chest again. She wanted to see him play. She was asking to be included in the one thing that was entirely his.

"It's not very exciting," he said, but he was already standing, ball in hand.

"I'm sure it's amazing," she said with that absolute confidence she seemed to have in everything he did. "Princes probably play differently than regular people."

They moved to a small clear space in the garden, and Michael set the ball down, suddenly self-conscious. He'd never played in front of anyone before—his skills were purely functional, developed through necessity and boredom rather than any formal training.

But as he began to demonstrate some basic moves, keeping the ball close and controlled, she watched with rapt attention.

"That's incredible!" she said as he executed a simple turn. "You make it look so effortless!"

Michael felt himself stand a little straighter. It was effortless, in a way—the ball responded to his touch like an extension of himself, predictable and reliable in ways that nothing else in his life was.

"It takes practice," he said, allowing a note of pride to creep into his voice.

"I can tell! You move like you were born to play." She clapped her hands together excitedly. "Could you teach me something simple? I promise I won't embarrass you too badly."

The idea of teaching her—of being the expert for once instead of the one scrambling to keep up with her questions about a life he'd invented—was appealing in a way that surprised him.

"Maybe something basic," he said, trying to sound magnanimous rather than eager.

For the next hour, Michael found himself in the unprecedented position of being the one with knowledge to share. He showed her how to position her foot, how to control the ball's direction, how to keep it from rolling too far away. She was terrible at it—constantly kicking too hard or missing entirely—but she listened to his instructions with the same serious attention she gave everything else.

And when she finally managed to kick the ball in a straight line for more than two meters, the way she looked at him—like he'd just performed actual magic—made Michael feel something he'd never experienced before.

Power. Not the cruel, violent power his father wielded with his fists, but something altogether different. The power of being good at something, of having skills worth sharing, of being looked up to rather than looked down upon.

"You're an excellent teacher, Your Highness," she said, slightly out of breath from her attempts. "I can see why your people respect you so much."

His people. Michael glanced down at his soccer ball, scuffed and imperfect but unmistakably his, and felt something shift in his understanding of himself. Maybe he didn't have subjects or a kingdom in the traditional sense, but he had this—this one thing he was genuinely good at, this skill he'd developed entirely on his own.

Maybe that was a kind of sovereignty too.

"You did well," he said, and was pleased to hear how naturally the praise came. "With more practice, you could be quite good."

She beamed at him like he'd just bestowed a knighthood.

As they walked back to their table, Michael carefully rewrapping his ball, he caught himself thinking about tomorrow. About what new thing she might have baked for him, what questions she might ask, what other small pieces of his real life he might be able to share disguised as royal privileges.

It was a dangerous game he was playing, this delicate balance between truth and fiction. But as he bit into another perfect rusk and listened to her chatter about tooth fairy logistics and soccer techniques with equal enthusiasm, Michael found he didn't care about the danger.

For the first time in his life, someone was fussing over him simply because they wanted to. Someone was making him food, asking about his day, treating his presence like a gift rather than a burden. Someone believed he was worthy of attention and care and respect.

Even if it was all built on a lie, it felt more real than anything else in his world.

And tomorrow, he would be a prince again.

Chapter Text

By the second week, Michael had stopped feeling guilty about the lies.

He approached the bakery each morning with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly what awaited him: warm rusks wrapped with care, something new and delicious to try, and most importantly, her undivided attention focused entirely on making him happy. It had become as reliable as sunrise, this daily dose of worship disguised as customer service.

"Your Highness!" she called out as he rounded the corner, and Michael felt that familiar surge of satisfaction at the reverence in her voice. "I've been waiting for you!"

Of course she had. She was always waiting for him now, sometimes for hours if the flour-dusted state of her apron was any indication. Michael had grown to expect it, this eager anticipation of his arrival that made him feel like the center of someone's universe.

"I hope I haven't kept you too long," he said, though they both knew he wasn't actually sorry. There was something delicious about knowing she would wait for him regardless, that his schedule took precedence over everything else in her day.

"Not at all! I used the time to perfect your rusks—I think I've finally gotten the sweetness exactly right for royal tastes." She held up a perfectly golden batch with the pride of an artist displaying a masterpiece. "And I made Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte today. It's quite complex, so I started before dawn to make sure it would be ready when you arrived."

Before dawn. Michael felt a warm glow of self-importance at the thought of her rising in the dark just to ensure his satisfaction. This was what it meant to matter to someone, to be the priority that shaped their entire day around accommodating his preferences.

"How thoughtful," he said, accepting the compliment as his due. He'd been working on his pronunciation lately, practicing the refined inflection he'd observed in those shop window displays until it came naturally. "I trust your efforts will be... adequate."

She practically glowed at what she clearly interpreted as princely approval. "I hope so, Your Highness. I know how discerning royal palates can be."

Michael watched her fuss over the presentation of his food, adjusting the paper wrapping twice to ensure it met whatever standard she imagined he required. Every movement was calculated to please him, every word chosen to acknowledge his supposed superiority. It was intoxicating in a way that made him hungry for more.

They settled into their usual routine in the garden, though today Michael noticed she seemed somewhat subdued despite her cheerful words. Not that it mattered particularly—what mattered was that she'd still made his rusks perfectly and had clearly put tremendous effort into the cake. Her emotional state was secondary to her ability to provide the attention he'd grown accustomed to receiving.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said after he'd taken his first appreciative bite of rusk. "Do princes have to fight monsters? Like, real dangerous ones?"

Michael paused, a piece of cake halfway to his mouth. Monsters. The question struck him as oddly naive even for her—did she still believe in literal fairy tale creatures lurking in forests and caves?

"Monsters come in many forms," he said carefully, drawing on his growing repertoire of vaguely mysterious responses. "Some are more... traditional than others."

Her eyes widened with fascination. "You mean you actually fight them? How brave!"

Brave. Michael almost laughed at the irony. If only she knew about the real monster in his life—the one who wore his father's face, who reeked of alcohol and unfulfilled rage, who turned their small apartment into a battlefield every night. There was nothing brave about how he handled that particular monster. He ran, he hid, he endured. He survived, but survival wasn't heroism.

"It's part of the responsibility," he said instead, enjoying the way she leaned forward with rapt attention. This was what he'd come to love most about their conversations—the way she absorbed every word like he was revealing sacred truths. "Royal duties often involve... protecting others from threats they couldn't handle themselves."

It wasn't entirely untrue. Wasn't his daily theft a way of protecting himself and his father from starvation? Wasn't his careful management of his father's moods a form of monster-slaying, keeping the worst of the violence at bay through strategic submission?

"That must be so frightening," she breathed. "But also wonderful, knowing you're keeping people safe."

Safe. Michael looked at her earnest face and felt something twist in his chest. She had no idea what real danger looked like, what it felt like to live in constant anticipation of the next blow. Her monsters were abstract concepts from storybooks, beings that could be defeated with swords and courage and noble intentions.

His monster lived in the same four walls he called home, and there was no defeating it—only surviving it day after day after day.

"Someone has to do it," he said, taking another bite of the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte to avoid further elaboration. The cake was exceptional, layers of chocolate and cherry and cream that dissolved on his tongue in complex sweetness. "This is very good," he added, because praise made her practically radiant with joy, and her joy was what made these visits worthwhile.

"Really? You're not just being polite?" She pressed her hands together anxiously. "I was worried the cherries weren't elegant enough for someone of your status."

"It meets my standards," Michael said with the magnanimous air he'd perfected over their weeks together. He'd learned that withholding complete approval made his eventual praise more precious to her, kept her striving to please him. "Though perhaps next time you might consider adding more layers."

"Yes, of course!" she said eagerly, pulling out a small notebook to write down his suggestion. "More layers. I should have thought of that myself. Princes probably expect more elaborate presentations."

Michael watched her scribble notes about his fictional preferences and felt a familiar thrill of control. She was documenting his likes and dislikes, building an entire encyclopedia of how to serve him better. It was the kind of devoted attention he'd never imagined receiving from anyone.

"You seem quieter today," he observed, though it was more of a casual comment than genuine concern. As long as she continued to provide his rusks and hang on his every word, her mood was of secondary importance. "Is everything quite alright?"

She looked up from her notebook, and for a moment her smile faltered slightly. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. Just... well, I got a letter from my parents yesterday. They might not be able to visit this summer like they planned. Some business emergency came up."

Michael nodded politely, already losing interest in the details. Adult problems were tiresome, and besides, her parents' absence meant more of her attention would be focused on him rather than divided between family obligations. If anything, it was a beneficial development.

"I'm sure they'll sort things out," he said dismissively, reaching for another rusk. "These really are perfect today. You've outdone yourself."

Her face brightened immediately at the praise, the shadow of disappointment vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. This was what Michael appreciated most about her—how easily redirected she was, how completely his approval could override whatever other concerns might be troubling her.

"I'm so glad you think so! I tried a slightly different technique with the dough, and I was worried it might change the texture too much."

And just like that, she was back to focusing entirely on him, on his satisfaction, on ensuring every detail met his exacting standards. The business with her parents was forgotten, pushed aside in favor of what really mattered: making sure he was properly attended to.

Michael settled back in his chair, basking in the familiar warmth of her devoted attention. This was how things should be—her entire world revolving around anticipating his needs, her happiness dependent on his approval, her day structured entirely around the brief hour he chose to spend in her presence.

He'd grown to love her, in his way. Not for who she was beneath all the fussing and worrying and eager-to-please sweetness, but for what she provided him. She was his favorite person because she made him feel like the most important person in the world, because she had transformed him from a discarded child into someone worthy of reverence and careful attention.

The fact that it was all built on elaborate fiction hardly mattered anymore. What mattered was that tomorrow she would be waiting for him again, with perfect rusks and something new to try and that bright, devoted smile that existed solely for his benefit.

"Tell me more about monster-fighting," she said, settling in for what had become their daily ritual of questions and carefully crafted answers. "Do you use special weapons?"

Michael smiled and took another bite of cake, preparing to weave another tale of fictional heroism while the real monster in his life slept off another drunken bender. Let her believe in princes who fought noble battles against evil creatures. Let her believe he was someone worth getting up before dawn for.

As long as she kept believing, he could keep being the center of someone's world, could keep feeling like he mattered, could keep pretending that somewhere in this charade was a version of himself worth caring about.

The rusks were perfect, the cake was exceptional, and she was looking at him like he held the answers to all of life's mysteries. What more could a prince possibly want?

---

Later that afternoon, after Michael had consumed every crumb she'd prepared and basked in an hour of uninterrupted adoration, he made his way back through the streets toward home. His stomach was full, his ego thoroughly fed, and his mind already anticipating tomorrow's offerings.

It wasn't until he was climbing the stairs to his apartment that he realized he'd never asked why her parents weren't visiting. Hadn't wondered if she was sad about spending the summer alone, hadn't considered that her subdued mood might have been disappointment rather than just a temporary lull in her usual enthusiasm.

The thought flickered through his mind briefly, then vanished as he heard his father stirring behind the thin walls. There were more immediate concerns to worry about than the emotional state of a girl whose primary value lay in how thoroughly she catered to his needs.

After all, she'd been perfectly cheerful by the time he left. His approval had been sufficient to restore her good mood, which was really all that mattered. Tomorrow she would have more rusks waiting, more questions about his fictional royal life, more devoted attention focused entirely on his satisfaction.

Michael pushed thoughts of her potential loneliness aside and prepared to face the very real monster waiting in his living room. Some battles, he was learning, were worth fighting. Others were simply obstacles that got in the way of more important things.

Like being someone's prince for an hour each day, and all the sweet, devoted worship that came with it.

Chapter Text

Three weeks into what Michael had come to think of as his reign at Mimi Bakery, he noticed something was different about her demeanor. Not wrong, exactly, but... muted. Like someone had turned down the brightness on her usual enthusiasm just a fraction.

She was still there at the window when he arrived, still had his rusks waiting warm from the oven, still greeted him with that same bright smile. But there was something underneath it now—a shadow that flickered across her features when she thought he wasn't looking, a slight hesitation before she launched into her usual chatter about what she'd baked for him.

Michael's first instinct should have been concern. Should have been to ask what was wrong, to offer comfort the way she'd offered him countless mornings of warmth and care.

Instead, he found himself wondering if her subdued mood would affect the quality of his treatment.

"Your Highness," she said as he approached, and even her greeting sounded slightly less effusive than usual. "I made Lebkuchen today, though I'm not sure if the spices are quite right..."

Michael accepted the wrapped pastries along with his precious rusks, noting with satisfaction that she'd still prepared both with her usual meticulous care. Whatever was bothering her hadn't affected her dedication to serving him, which was really all that mattered.

"I'm sure they're perfect," he said, having perfected a tone of gracious magnanimity over the past weeks. The words came easily now, shaped by hours of studying the speech patterns of aristocrats on television screens and refined through daily practice with an increasingly appreciative audience.

Her smile brightened fractionally at his confidence in her abilities, and Michael felt that familiar warm surge of satisfaction. This was what he'd grown to crave—not just the food or the respite from his father's violence, but this. The way she looked at him like his opinion mattered, like his approval was something worth earning.

"Should we sit in the garden?" he asked, though it was less a question than an expectation now. Of course they would sit in the garden. Of course she would arrange his food just so and listen with rapt attention to whatever carefully constructed stories he chose to share about his fictional royal life.

"Of course," she said, but he caught the slight pause before her agreement. It was so brief he almost missed it, and when he glanced at her face, she was already moving toward the back of the bakery with her usual purposeful stride.

Michael followed, his mind already turning to what aspects of his princely persona he might elaborate on today. He'd been developing an increasingly complex mythology around his life—diplomatic meetings with neighboring kingdoms, the burden of making decisions that affected thousands of subjects, the loneliness of royal responsibility. She ate it all up with the same enthusiasm she showed for his opinions on her baking, and he'd become quite skilled at reading her reactions, knowing exactly which details would make her eyes widen with fascination.

They settled at their usual table, and Michael watched with practiced expectation as she arranged his food with careful precision. The Lebkuchen was good—excellent, even—with the perfect balance of honey and spices that made him think of Christmas markets he'd only seen in shop windows. But he found himself paying less attention to the flavors than to her reaction as he tasted it.

"It's exceptional," he pronounced, noting with satisfaction how her face lit up at his approval. "The spicing shows real sophistication."

"Really?" she asked, and there was something almost desperate in her eagerness for his praise that made him feel powerful in a way that was becoming addictive.

"Truly," he confirmed with a regal nod he'd been practicing. "I've had court bakers with years of training who couldn't achieve this level of complexity."

It was complete nonsense, of course. Michael had never set foot in a court of any kind, had never tasted anything made by trained professionals until she'd started her daily campaign to impress him. But she didn't know that, and the way she practically glowed under his manufactured praise made him feel like he was exactly the prince she believed him to be.

"I'm so relieved," she said, settling back in her chair with the first genuine smile he'd seen from her all morning. "I was worried it wasn't good enough for someone with such refined tastes."

Michael preened under the compliment, straightening his posture in a way that had become automatic. He'd grown to expect this kind of deference, this assumption that his preferences were more sophisticated and important than anyone else's. It was intoxicating, being treated like his opinions carried weight, like disappointing him would be a genuine tragedy.

"You worry too much," he said with the kind of benevolent condescension he'd observed in period dramas. "Your skill improves daily. I'm quite impressed with your progress."

The words were calculated to maintain her devotion while establishing his superior position, and they worked exactly as intended. She flushed with pleasure at his approval, and Michael felt that familiar rush of satisfaction at successfully maintaining his elevated status in her eyes.

They talked for the better part of an hour, with Michael holding court as usual while she listened with flattering attention to his increasingly elaborate tales of royal responsibility. He found himself embellishing more than usual, describing grand ballrooms and state dinners, the weight of wearing a crown, the burden of having an entire kingdom depend on his wisdom.

"It must be lonely sometimes," she said softly during a pause in his storytelling, and something in her tone made him glance at her more closely.

There was that shadow again, flickering across her features like a cloud passing over the sun. For a moment, Michael felt something that might have been curiosity about what was causing it. But then she continued speaking, and the moment passed.

"I mean, being so important, having so much responsibility—you probably don't get to just be a normal boy very often."

"Princes aren't meant to be normal," Michael replied automatically, the response shaped by weeks of maintaining his fictional superiority. "We're bred for greatness, trained from birth to be better than common people."

The words came out harsher than he'd intended, tinged with an arrogance that surprised even him. When had he started believing his own lies so completely? When had the performance of princeliness become so natural that it felt more real than his actual life?

But she didn't seem put off by his tone. If anything, she looked at him with something like sympathy.

"That's what I mean," she said gently. "You never get to just... exist without expectations. Someone like me could never understand that kind of pressure."

Michael felt himself soften slightly at her obvious compassion, though it was less because he appreciated her empathy and more because he enjoyed being the object of her concern.

"It's the price of nobility," he said with practiced resignation, as if he were making some great sacrifice rather than living the most comfortable lie of his life.

"Well," she said, and there was something wistful in her voice that he didn't quite catch because he was too focused on the way she was looking at him—like he was brave and admirable and worthy of her respect. "I hope that someday you find someone who sees past all that. Someone who needs you to rescue them from their tower, and you get to be their prince in shining armor."

The image she painted was so ridiculously romantic that Michael almost laughed. Him, rescuing anyone? He could barely rescue himself from his father's fists or the constant gnawing of hunger. But there was something about the way she said it—with such genuine hope for his happiness—that made him pause.

"You think I need rescuing?" he asked, though he phrased it like a joke.

"Oh no!" she said quickly, seeming almost horrified that he might have misunderstood. "I meant you'd be the one doing the rescuing. Like in fairy tales, where the prince saves the princess from the dragon or the tower or whatever's keeping her trapped."

She gestured upward as she spoke, and Michael followed her gaze to the bakery window above them where she spent her mornings waiting for him to arrive. There was something almost symbolic about it—her looking down at him from that elevated position, him having to approach from below and look up to catch her attention.

But Michael pushed that uncomfortable parallel aside, focusing instead on the more appealing aspects of her fantasy.

"A prince in shining armor," he repeated, and found he liked the sound of it. It fit with the image he'd been constructing of himself—noble, important, worthy of admiration and devotion.

"Exactly," she said, and her smile was warm enough to make him forget about the strange melancholy that had been clinging to her all morning. "Some lucky girl is going to be so grateful when her prince finally comes to save her."

Michael nodded, already imagining scenarios where he might play such a role. Not that he believed in fairy tale rescues any more than he believed in tooth fairies or Santa Claus, but there was something appealing about the idea of being someone's salvation rather than someone's burden.

The conversation moved on to other topics, but her words stayed with him as they finished their time together. A prince in shining armor. Someone worth rescuing others for. It was a pleasant fantasy, and Michael found himself embellishing it in his mind as he walked home, imagining grateful princesses and admiring subjects and all the ways he might demonstrate his inherent superiority.

He was so caught up in these daydreams that he almost forgot about the shadow he'd seen in her eyes, the slight dimming of her usual brightness that had marked the beginning of their conversation.

Almost.

---

The next morning, Michael arrived at the bakery at his usual time, already anticipating the way her face would light up when she saw him, already wondering what new delicacy she might have prepared for his approval. He'd been thinking about her comment regarding princes in shining armor, and he'd prepared some suitably noble responses about the burden of being someone others could depend on.

But when he approached the familiar window, it was the grandmother who stood behind the glass.

"Good morning," she said with her usual warm smile, though there was something in her eyes that made Michael's stomach clench with sudden unease.

"Where is she?" he asked, the question coming out more demanding than he'd intended. He was a prince, after all. He had every right to expect his usual service.

The grandmother's expression grew gentle in a way that made Michael's chest tighten with something that felt dangerously close to panic.

"Oh, dear," she said softly. "She's gone back to school in Berlin. Summer's over, you know. She left yesterday morning."

The words hit Michael like a physical blow. Gone. Back to school. Summer's over.

"She didn't... she didn't mention..." he started, then stopped. Of course she hadn't mentioned it. Why would she? He was just some boy she'd spent a few weeks entertaining, not someone whose feelings mattered enough to consider.

"I have your rusks ready," the grandmother continued kindly, apparently unaware that she'd just shattered Michael's entire world with a handful of casual words. "She made an extra batch before she left, wanted to make sure you'd have them even if she couldn't be here to serve them herself."

Michael stared at the wrapped pastries the old woman held out to him, and for a moment he couldn't make his hands move to take them. She'd made them before she left. Had thought of him even while she was packing to return to her real life, her real world where princes existed only in stories and no one had to pretend that scruffy street children were royalty.

"Did she..." he swallowed hard, hating how young and lost his voice sounded. "Did she say anything? About... about when she might come back?"

The grandmother's smile grew sadder. "Next summer, perhaps. Though you know how it is with young people—they grow up so quickly. By next year, she might have other interests, other ways to spend her holidays."

Other interests. Other ways to spend her time that didn't involve getting up early to make rusks for a boy who'd lied to her about everything.

Michael took the pastries with numb fingers, noting distantly that they were still warm, that she'd probably baked them mere hours before leaving him behind. The thought should have been touching—evidence that she'd cared enough to ensure his comfort even in her absence.

Instead, it just made everything worse.

"Thank you," he managed, though his voice sounded strange and hollow even to his own ears.

He stumbled away from the bakery in a daze, clutching the rusks that suddenly felt like consolation prizes. All those weeks of playing prince, of basking in her attention and care and admiration, and she'd left without even saying goodbye. Had probably forgotten about him the moment her train pulled away from the station.

Michael found himself in his usual alley, unwrapping the rusks with hands that shook slightly. They tasted exactly the same as always—golden and sweet and perfect—but somehow they turned to ash in his mouth.

What kind of prince got abandoned without warning? What kind of royalty sat alone in a dirty alley, eating charity food and wondering why no one had thought to tell him his kingdom was ending?

The answer, of course, was obvious: the fake kind. The kind that only existed in the imagination of a bored girl looking for a summer project.

For weeks, Michael had grown accustomed to being important. To having someone wait for him every morning, someone who cared about his opinions and fussed over his comfort and looked at him like he mattered. He'd started to believe that he deserved that kind of attention, that his preferences and presence were valuable enough to earn such devoted service.

But now, sitting alone with his cooling rusks and the echo of the grandmother's gentle dismissal, Michael was forced to confront the truth he'd been avoiding: none of it had been real.

He wasn't a prince. He was exactly what he'd always been—a worthless boy whose own mother hadn't wanted him, whose father used him as a punching bag, who had to steal food to survive. The only difference was that for a few brief weeks, he'd had someone who chose not to see that truth.

And now even that was gone.

Michael ate his rusks mechanically, barely tasting them as he tried to process the magnitude of his loss. It wasn't just that she was gone, though that hurt more than he wanted to admit. It was that with her departure, the entire fantasy collapsed. There was no point in practicing regal gestures or refined speech patterns when there was no one left to perform for. No point in maintaining the elaborate mythology of his royal life when his only audience had returned to reality.

The game was over. The prince was dead. And Michael was exactly what he'd always been: alone.

But as he sat in that alley, surrounded by the debris of his shattered fantasy, what struck him most wasn't grief for the girl who'd left him behind. It was rage at the loss of what she'd provided—the daily confirmation of his importance, the steady stream of attention and care and admiration that had made him feel, for the first time in his life, like he mattered.

He missed her, yes. But what he missed most wasn't her laugh or her kindness or the way she'd looked at him with genuine warmth.

What he missed was the way she'd made him feel like a king.

And that realization, more than her absence, more than the return to his father's fists and empty stomach and endless gray days, was what finally broke something inside Michael's chest that would never quite heal the same way again.

---

Days blended into each other with the familiar monotony that had defined Michael's life before the bakery. His father's drinking, the desperate scramble for food, the constant dance of survival that left no room for fantasies about royal treatment or devoted subjects.

But something had changed in him during those weeks of being worshipped. Something that made the return to invisibility almost unbearable.

He found himself walking past the bakery sometimes, telling himself he was just taking a different route home. The grandmother would wave when she saw him, would sometimes call out an offer of day-old bread or yesterday's pastries. But it wasn't the same. Her kindness was generic, offered to any hungry child who might wander past. There was nothing special about it, nothing that recognized him as important or worthy of particular attention.

Michael would accept her charity with stilted politeness and continue on his way, the taste of ordinary kindness bitter in his mouth after weeks of devoted worship.

At night, lying on his thin mattress while his father snored off another bender, Michael would replay those mornings in the garden. But instead of remembering her smiles or her laughter or the genuine care she'd shown him, he found himself focusing on the way she'd hung on his every word. The way she'd practiced and prepared and fretted over whether her offerings were good enough for his elevated tastes.

He'd been drunk on it—the power, the importance, the intoxicating certainty that someone found him worth impressing. And now, in the cold reality of his actual life, Michael understood with crystal clarity what he'd lost.

Not love. Not friendship. Not even genuine connection.

He'd lost his throne. And thrones, once abdicated, were almost impossible to reclaim.

But as the weeks passed and the sharp edge of that loss began to dull into a constant ache, Michael made himself a promise. Someday, somehow, he would find his way back to that feeling. That sense of being special, important, worthy of devotion.

Next time, though, he wouldn't make the mistake of depending on someone else's fantasy to sustain it.

Next time, he would build his kingdom himself.

And no one—no one—would ever be allowed to walk away from it again.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones outside Mimi Bakery as she wiped down the display counter, humming softly to herself. Six years had passed since she'd last spent a summer in this place, and being back felt like slipping into a comfortable old sweater—familiar and warm, even if it didn't quite fit the same way it used to.

"Liebling, could you mind the window for a moment?" her grandmother called from the back. "These old bones need a rest."

"Of course, Oma," she replied, moving to take her grandmother's place at the serving window. The evening crowd had thinned, and she expected maybe one or two more customers before they closed for the day.

She was reorganizing the menu board when a shadow fell across the window, blocking out the golden light.

"Welcome to Mimi Bakery, how can I—"

The words died in her throat as she looked up and found herself staring into the most striking pair of eyes she'd ever seen. They were blue—not just blue, but an almost supernatural shade of royal blue that seemed to glow against his pale skin.

The young man standing before her was... well, there was no other word for it. He was beautiful. Ethereally so, with sharp, aristocratic features that looked like they'd been carved from marble, and long blond hair that fell past his shoulders in an elaborate mullet, the ends dyed that same impossible blue as his eyes.

He was staring at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—surprise? Recognition? Something almost like horror flickered across his perfect features before it was quickly masked by practiced indifference.

"I..." she started, suddenly very aware that she'd been gaping at him like an idiot. "Sorry, what can I get for you?"

The young man continued to stare at her, his blue eyes searching her face with an intensity that made her want to squirm. There was something almost desperate in the way he looked at her, like he was trying to find something that wasn't there.

"Do you..." he began, his voice smooth and cultured with just a hint of an accent she couldn't quite place. "Do you work here often?"

It was an odd question, delivered with an odd tone—almost testing, like he was waiting for a specific answer.

"I'm helping my grandmother for the summer," she replied, feeling strangely off-balance under his scrutiny. "I used to visit when I was younger, but it's been a few years."

Something flickered in his eyes again—satisfaction? Disappointment? It was gone too quickly to identify.

"I see," he said slowly, and there was a strange quality to his voice now, like he was choosing each word with careful precision. "And your grandmother... she still runs this place?"

"Yes, she's in the back. Is there something specific you needed, or...?"

"Rusks," he said abruptly, his gaze never leaving her face. "I'd like to order rusks."

She blinked. "Rusks? Those aren't really on our menu anymore. Most people order the—"

"I'm aware they're not on the menu," he interrupted, and there was an edge to his voice now, sharp and slightly frustrated. "But surely you can make them?"

There was something oddly familiar about the request, though she couldn't quite place why. Rusks. Why did that feel significant?

"I... I'll have to check with my grandmother," she said, feeling increasingly confused by this entire interaction. "Can you wait just a moment?"

She ducked back from the window, finding her grandmother settling into her chair with a cup of tea.

"Oma, there's a customer asking for rusks. Do we still make those?"

Her grandmother's face lit up with a smile that could only be described as mischievous. "Rusks? How wonderful! Yes, yes, we can make those. Such a special request deserves special attention."

"But they're not on the menu..."

"Some things don't need to be on a menu to be important, liebling," her grandmother said, pushing herself up with surprising energy for someone who'd claimed her bones needed rest just moments ago. She made her way to the window, and the moment she saw the customer, her smile grew even wider. "Well, well, well."

The young man's expression shifted slightly when he saw her grandmother, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features before he schooled them back into cool indifference.

"Good evening," he said with a polite nod that somehow seemed too formal, too practiced.

"Welcome back," her grandmother replied, and there was something knowing in her tone that made the girl glance between them in confusion.

"You know him, Oma?"

"Oh, I know many people," her grandmother said vaguely, waving her hand dismissively. "Now, rusks for our customer. The recipe is in the blue notebook, third shelf. You remember how to make them, yes?"

"I... yes, I think so," she said, still feeling like she was missing something important. "It'll take about twenty minutes?"

"I can wait," the young man said, and there was something almost challenging in the way he said it, like he was daring them to refuse him.

As she retreated to the kitchen to begin preparing the rusks, she could hear her grandmother making pleasant small talk with the customer through the window. There was something odd about the whole situation—the way he'd looked at her, the specific request for an off-menu item, her grandmother's strange reaction.

"Oma," she called out as she measured flour, "what's so special about rusks?"

Her grandmother appeared in the doorway, that mischievous smile still playing at her lips. "Do you remember the summer you were twelve? When you stayed here and helped me in the bakery?"

The memory surfaced slowly, like a dream half-forgotten. "I... yes? I remember baking a lot. You taught me most of your recipes that summer."

"Do you remember who you baked for?"

She paused, flour-dusted hands hovering over the mixing bowl. There had been someone, hadn't there? Someone special. "There was... a boy?"

"A prince," her grandmother corrected with a wink. "Or so I told you. You were quite taken with the idea."

The memory became clearer now, though it felt strange and distant, like looking at an old photograph that had faded with time. "The prince! I remember now. I used to make him rusks every morning. He had..." She frowned, trying to recall the details. "He had this sparkle about him. Like he was made of light or something. Very regal bearing, even as a child."

Her grandmother made a soft sound that might have been amusement or exasperation. "Sparkle, hmm? That's one way to remember it."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, liebling," The old woman's expression grew more serious, though the twinkle never quite left her eyes. "He was just a boy, Liebling. A very troubled, very hungry boy who needed someone to believe he was more than what his life had made him."

She stared at her grandmother, trying to reconcile this information with her hazy memories. "But... I remember him having this kind of glow about him? Like he really was royal somehow. He was so elegant and well-spoken and—"

"He was scruffy and underfed and wore the same dirty clothes every day," her grandmother corrected gently. "He was also clever and observant and desperate for any scrap of kindness someone might throw his way."

The words felt wrong, like they were describing a completely different person from the one in her memories. She'd spent that summer serving a prince, hadn't she? Someone refined and important who'd honored their humble bakery with his presence?

"That doesn't sound right," she protested weakly. "I distinctly remember—"

"You remember what you saw," her grandmother interrupted softly. "And children see the world very differently than adults do. Sometimes they see past the dirt and hunger to something true underneath. Sometimes they see the person someone could become, rather than who they are in that moment."

She looked down at the flour dusting her hands, trying to reconcile two completely different versions of the same memory. "But if he was just some poor kid, then why did you tell me he was a prince?"

Her grandmother's smile turned sad and fond at the same time. "Because he needed to be one. And you needed someone to believe in. Sometimes the best gift we can give someone is the chance to be who they wish they were, even if only for a little while."

"That's..." She paused, unsure how to finish the thought. It felt manipulative, somehow. But also heartbreakingly kind. "You lied to me."

"I told you a story," her grandmother corrected. "And for one summer, that story was true enough for a little boy to stand a little straighter, to smile a little more easily, to feel like maybe he mattered to someone."

She thought about the man waiting at the window—about his expensive clothes and confident bearing, about the way he'd looked at her like she was failing some kind of test. Could that really be the same person as the boy from her memories?

She shook her head, returning her attention to the rusks. "Well, whoever he was, he's probably long gone by now. Kids don't usually come back to random bakeries from their childhood."

"Don't they?" her grandmother murmured, glancing back toward the window where the handsome stranger waited with patient intensity. "Sometimes people return to places that meant something to them. Sometimes they need to see if the magic was real."

"You're being very mysterious today, Oma."

"It's a gift of old age," her grandmother said cheerfully before shuffling back to the front.

As she worked on the rusks, she found her mind drifting back to that summer. The prince—she still thought of him that way, despite her grandmother's corrections—had been her first real crush, she supposed. Or at least, the first person she'd genuinely wanted to impress. She'd gotten up early every morning to perfect her baking, had practiced and fretted over every detail, had felt like serving him was the most important task in the world.

But the details of his face, his voice, even his name—those had faded with time. All that remained was the impression of someone special, someone worth the effort. And that strange feeling she used to get when he looked at her like her opinion mattered more than anything.

The rusks came out perfectly—golden and fragrant, exactly how she remembered making them all those years ago. She arranged them carefully in paper, the muscle memory of presentation returning as if no time had passed at all.

When she brought them to the window, the young man was still there, leaning against the frame with practiced casualness that somehow seemed deliberately posed. His eyes locked onto the wrapped rusks with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

"Here you are," she said, handing them over. "That'll be—"

"These," he interrupted, his voice strange and tight, "how did you know to make them exactly like this?"

She blinked at the odd question. "I... followed the recipe? The same one we've always used?"

"The same one from six years ago?" He was staring at her again with that searching, desperate look.

"I suppose? The recipe hasn't changed." She tilted her head, studying him more carefully. There was something almost familiar about the way he was looking at her, but she couldn't place it. "Have we... met before?"

Something flashed across his face—hope? triumph?—before he caught himself. "Have we?"

"I don't think so," she said slowly. "I feel like I'd remember someone who looked like you."

The hope dimmed, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like offense. "You'd remember someone who looked like me," he repeated flatly.

"Well, yes? You're very..." she gestured vaguely at him, "striking."

"Striking," he said, and now he definitely sounded offended. "I'm striking."

"Is that... not a compliment?"

He made a frustrated sound, running a hand through his distinctive hair. "Do you remember anyone from that summer six years ago? Anyone at all?"

The question was so specific and delivered with such intensity that she actually took a step back. "That's a weirdly personal question from a stranger."

"Answer it."

"I remember my grandmother," she said, irritation creeping into her voice at his demanding tone. "I remember learning to bake. I remember..." She hesitated. "There was a boy. A prince, supposedly. But I was twelve and believed in fairy tales. Why?"

"A prince," he repeated, his jaw clenching. "What did this prince look like?"

"Apparently I don't really remember the details that well. Just an impression of someone... special. Important." She frowned at him. "Why are you so interested in my childhood memories?"

He stared at her for a long moment, conflict flickering across his face like a storm he couldn’t quite contain. At last, his gaze dropped to the rusks in her hands.

"They’re exactly the same," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not a single thing has changed."

The words made her uneasy—too heavy, too intimate for a stranger’s observation. She opened her mouth to respond, but just then her grandmother returned to the window, her knowing smile somehow even more pronounced.

"Good memory you have," her grandmother said mildly. "Not everyone remembers the small things from childhood."

"I remember everything," he replied, and there was something almost threatening in the statement. "Every detail. Every conversation. Every moment."

The girl shifted uncomfortably under his continued stare. "That must be exhausting."

"You have no idea," he muttered, finally breaking eye contact to pull out his wallet. "How much?"

"For you? Nothing," her grandmother said, waving away his money. "Consider it a welcome back gift."

"I insist on paying," he said firmly.

"And I insist you don't," her grandmother countered with equal firmness. "Some traditions are worth maintaining."

The young man's expression flickered with something complex—frustration, resignation, and something that might have been gratitude all warring for dominance. Finally, he gave a stiff nod.

"Thank you," he said, the words seeming to cost him something. He took the wrapped rusks and turned to leave, but paused after a few steps. Without turning around, he spoke over his shoulder. "I'll be back tomorrow. Same time."

It sounded less like a promise and more like a threat.

As he walked away, his distinctive hair catching the evening light, she found herself staring after him in confusion.

"That was weird, right?" she said to her grandmother.

"Was it?" her grandmother replied innocently. "Seemed perfectly normal to me."

"Oma, he was acting like I should know him."

"And you're certain you don't?"

She watched the young man's retreating figure, something nagging at the back of her mind. "No. I mean... he's definitely not the prince from back then. That boy was nothing like this guy."

"Wasn't he?" her grandmother murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.

"What?"

"Nothing, liebling. Nothing at all." Her grandmother patted her hand. "But I think you should prepare more rusks tomorrow. Something tells me we'll need them."

As her grandmother shuffled back inside, humming to herself, she remained at the window, watching the spot where the strange young man had disappeared around the corner.

There was something about him. Something in those impossibly blue eyes that felt like they were trying to tell her something important. Something in the way he'd looked at her like she should remember, like forgetting was some kind of betrayal.

But no. That was ridiculous. She'd never met him before. She would definitely remember someone like him.

Wouldn't she?

══════════════════

Outside, walking briskly down the street, Kaiser bit into one of the still-warm rusks and felt the familiar taste explode across his tongue—exactly as he remembered it, exactly as it had tasted all those years ago when he'd been a desperate boy clinging to the fantasy of being someone important.

But the taste was overshadowed by something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like rage mixed with disbelief.

She didn't recognize him.

She'd looked right at him—into his eyes, the same eyes that had stared up at her from that bakery window every morning one summer—and seen a complete stranger.

He'd imagined this reunion countless times over the years—in the rare quiet moments between training sessions, late at night when sleep wouldn't come, during interviews when his mind wandered despite the cameras; All for the many possible reactions to this moment. Surprise, certainly. Maybe anger at the deception he'd maintained. Perhaps even disgust when she learned the truth about who and what he'd really been.

But complete non-recognition? That, he hadn't anticipated.

He'd changed, yes. The scrawny, underfed boy with bruises and stolen clothes had transformed into something else entirely—something he'd carefully constructed over years of brutal training and iron discipline. The blond mullet with its distinctive blue tips, the athletic build, the tattoo of his mother's blue rose hidden beneath his shirt. Even his name he'd changed, shedding "Michael" like a snake shedding skin, embracing "Kaiser" -Emperor- his true identity.

But surely something of that boy must have remained in his face? In his eyes? In the way he'd asked for rusks like it was a test she'd failed by not immediately understanding its significance?

Kaiser stopped walking and looked down at the rusks in his hand. They were perfect—exactly as she'd always made them, with that same careful attention to detail that had once made him feel like he mattered.

But she'd made them for a stranger. Not for her prince. Not even for the memory of a boy she'd once fussed over and pampered and treated like royalty.

She'd simply forgotten.

He'd spent six years thinking about those summer mornings, replaying every conversation, every smile, every moment when she'd looked at him like he mattered. Six years of building his career, earning his place as one of football's rising stars, becoming exactly the kind of person who deserved worship and devotion.

And she didn't fucking remember him.

Oh, she remembered the rusks. Remembered that there had been some boy, some vague prince from her childhood summers. But him? Michael, who'd spent weeks perfecting his posture and speech patterns just to be worthy of her attention? Who'd let her fuss over him and feed him and treat him like he was special?

No. That wasn't acceptable.

Kaiser had built an empire on the football field through manipulation and control, had learned to make others orbit around him like planets around the sun. He'd become exactly what that childhood fantasy had promised—someone important, someone who commanded attention and devotion and fear.

He'd become an emperor.

And emperors did not accept being forgotten.

Kaiser took another bite of the rusk, savoring its perfect sweetness, and made himself a promise.

He would return to that bakery. Again and again if necessary. He would insert himself back into her world until she had no choice but to remember. Until she looked at him and saw not just a handsome stranger, but the boy who'd once sat in her garden and let her believe he was a prince.

Until his baker girl remembered who had once been her prince.

Well, emperor now.

But she would remember. One way or another, she would remember.

And maybe then this gnawing, hollow feeling in his chest—this rage at being forgotten, this offense at being erased—would finally ease.

Kaiser finished the last of the rusks and turned back toward the bakery, studying it from a distance. She was visible through the window now, laughing at something her grandmother had said, her face bright with uncomplicated joy.

She looked happy. Content. Completely unburdened by memories of a scruffy boy who'd lied about being royalty.

Soon, Kaiser promised himself. Soon she would remember.

And when she did, he would make sure she understood exactly what she'd forgotten.

Not a prince in a fairy tale, waiting to rescue some damsel from her tower.

But an emperor, who had clawed his way up from nothing and would accept nothing less than absolute recognition of what he'd become.

The game was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.

And this time, Kaiser would make sure the ending was entirely under his control.

Chapter Text

True to his word—or threat, she still wasn’t entirely sure which—the striking young man returned the next day at exactly the same time.

She was elbow-deep in dough when Oma called out from the front, "Your favourite customer is back!"

"Mrs. Hoffmann?" she called back, thinking of the elderly woman who came in every Tuesday for her standing order of Roggenbrot.

"The other one," Oma replied, and there was that infuriating note of amusement in her voice again.

She wiped her hands on her apron and made her way to the window, only to find the striking blue-eyed man from yesterday leaning against the frame with an expression that somehow managed to be both casual and intensely expectant.

"Oh," she said, caught off guard despite Oma's warning. "You're back."

"Rusks," he said without preamble, as if this were already an established routine rather than their second interaction.

She blinked. "Again?"

"Is there a problem?" His tone carried a challenge, those vivid blue eyes fixed on her face with unnerving intensity.

"No, it's just... most people don't order the same thing two days in a row. Especially not rusks." She couldn't help the slight emphasis on the last word. Rusks were fine, but they were hardly the most exciting item in the bakery's repertoire.

"I'm not most people," he said with the kind of absolute certainty that should have sounded arrogant but instead just sounded like statement of fact.

"Clearly," she muttered, pulling out the blue recipe box again. Behind her, she could hear Oma's barely suppressed giggle.

She suppressed a sigh. Making rusks from scratch wasn’t difficult, exactly, but it was time-consuming, and something about the way he’d said ‘obviously’—with that same edge of expectation from yesterday—made her feel like she was missing some crucial context.

“Right. Give me about twenty minutes.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. As she worked on the dough, she became aware of him moving to lean against the counter where he could watch her work through the service window. There was something almost predatory about the way he observed her, like he was cataloging every movement.

"Do you follow football?" he asked suddenly.

She glanced up, surprised by the random question. "Football? Not really. I mean, I know it exists, obviously."

His eye twitched. Actually twitched. "You don't follow it at all?"

"Should I?" She shaped the dough with practiced efficiency, not seeing the way his jaw clenched. "Is there some law I'm not aware of?"

"I play professionally," he said, and there was a strange quality to his voice—almost like he was testing her again. "For Bastard München. I scored a hat-trick. Three goals in one match.” He was watching her face intently, like this should mean something.

“Oh,” she said blankly. “That’s… nice? Congratulations?”

"Nice," he repeated, and she looked up to find him staring at her with an expression that was equal parts disbelief and offense. "It's... nice."

"Well, yes? Winning is nice. Better than losing, I'd imagine." She wiped her hands on her apron, genuinely confused by his reaction. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to have an aneurysm."

"I'm fine," he said through what appeared to be gritted teeth. "Perfectly fine. Just peachy, in fact."

He definitely wasn't fine. There was a muscle jumping in his jaw, and his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

"You know," he continued, his voice taking on an almost seething quality, "most people are quite impressed when they learn I play professional football. I'm considered one of the best young strikers in Germany. My technique is revolutionary. I've developed plays that have completely changed how the game is approached at the elite level."

She blinked at him. Was he... bragging? It felt like bragging, but there was something almost desperate underneath it.

"That's great," she offered, still not entirely sure what response he was looking for. "You must work very hard."

"Work hard?" He let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded more frustrated than amused. "I've dedicated my entire life to becoming the best. Every single day, every moment, every decision I make is calculated to maintain my position at the top. I've sacrificed everything—"

He cut himself off abruptly, seeming to realize he'd said more than he intended.

"Well," she said carefully, "that's very... dedicated of you."

The muscle in his jaw jumped again. "Dedicated. Right."

An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by Oma humming cheerfully in the back room—a sound that suggested she was finding this entire interaction far more entertaining than she should.

“I’ll just… go put these in the oven,” she said, backing away from what was rapidly becoming an difficult conversation.

As she laid out the rusks on the baking tray, she could hear him through the window, apparently having corralled her grandmother into conversation.

“Surely you’ve seen the news?” his voice carried, taking on an almost desperate edge. “The match was broadcast internationally. I had a fifteen-meter direct shot that curved past three defenders. They’re calling it the goal of the season.”

“How wonderful for you, dear,” her grandmother replied with suspicious innocence. “My granddaughter is making your rusks now. She’s gotten quite good at them.”

There was a pause, then: “She doesn’t remember me at all, does she?”

“Remember you from what, exactly?” her grandmother asked, and even from the kitchen, she could hear the teasing lilt in the old woman’s voice.

Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost petulant. “Nothing. Never mind.”

She found herself smiling despite the strangeness of it all as she worked the dough. There was something oddly endearing about how offended he seemed that she didn’t follow football. Like a peacock discovering someone was unimpressed by its feathers.

Twenty minutes later, she returned to the window with fresh rusks, still warm from the oven. He straightened immediately when he saw her, that intense blue gaze locking onto the wrapped package in her hands.

“Here you are,” she said, holding them out.

He took them with careful precision, unwrapped them immediately, and bit into one. For a moment, his expression softened into something almost peaceful.

Then his eyes met hers, saw her watching him with polite customer-service interest, and his jaw clenched. He bit into the next rusk with significantly more force than necessary, chewing with an aggression that seemed entirely disproportionate to the innocent pastry.

She blinked. “Are you… okay?”

“Fine,” he ground out around a mouthful of rusk, taking another almost violent bite. “Perfectly fine. These are adequate.”

“Adequate?” She felt a small spike of offense herself now. She’d made those rusks perfectly, following her grandmother’s recipe exactly.

“I mean excellent,” he corrected quickly, then seemed to realize how he was eating and made a visible effort to calm down. “They’re excellent. Exactly the same as—” He cut himself off, jaw working as he chewed more rusks with barely contained frustration.

It was such a bizarrely intense reaction that she found herself fighting back a laugh. Here was this gorgeous, apparently famous footballer, absolutely *seething* while aggressively consuming baked goods. There was something almost cute about it—like watching an extremely pretty cat throw a tantrum.

“You know what,” she said, making a decision, “I made extra. Hold on.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with another paper-wrapped bundle. “Oma gave you rusks for free yesterday based on ‘tradition’ or whatever, so I figure you’ve got some kind of customer loyalty credit. These are on the house.”

He stared at the extra rusks like she’d just handed him a live grenade. “Why?”

"Because... there were extras?" She tilted her head, studying his expression. "And you seem to really like them, based on the way you're currently murdering them with your teeth."

A slight flush crept up his neck—actually visible despite his seemingly permanent expression of haughty confidence. "I'm not murdering them."

"You absolutely are. I've never seen someone eat so aggressively. It's like the rusks insulted your mother or something."

His expression flickered at that, something dark and complicated passing across his features before he schooled them back into aristocratic disdain. "I simply appreciate them properly."

"By destroying them?"

"By savoring them," he corrected with exaggerated dignity, settling for glaring at her while taking a pointed, deliberate bite that was clearly meant to demonstrate proper eating technique. Except his jaw was still clenched and his eyes were still stormy, which rather ruined the effect.

“Would you like to sit in the garden while you eat those?” she offered, partly out of genuine hospitality and partly because she was worried he might actually choke if he kept eating with such aggressive determination. “There’s a nice table under the apple tree. Might be more comfortable than standing at the window radiating frustration at pastries.”

The change in his expression was instantaneous and dramatic. The sullen scowl vanished, replaced by something that could only be described as hope—bright and almost boyish in its intensity. For just a moment, he looked nothing like the polished, perfect footballer and everything like… well, like a kid who’d just been offered something wonderful.

“The garden,” he repeated, and his voice had gone oddly soft. “Under the apple tree.”

“Yes?” She tilted her head, confused by his reaction. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, then cleared his throat and tried for more composure. “I mean, that would be acceptable. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Come around the side—there’s a gate.”

She led him through the bakery, past the displays and ovens to the back door that opened onto the small garden. It looked exactly as she remembered from childhood—a little patch of green surrounded by old brick walls, the gnarled apple tree providing dappled shade over a few weathered tables.

He stopped in the doorway, his eyes scanning the space with an intensity that suggested he was memorizing every detail. Or perhaps comparing it to a memory.

“It’s exactly the same,” he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.

“Have you been here before?” she asked, gesturing to their usual—wait, no, just a table. Just a random table. Not ‘their’ anything.

“Something like that,” he said evasively, but he moved directly to a specific table—the one in the best shade, with the perfect view of both the garden and the bakery window—without any hesitation.

She settled across from him, watching with barely concealed amusement as he continued working through his rusks with marginally less aggression now. The garden seemed to have calmed him somewhat, though she noticed his eyes kept darting around like he was looking for something.

"So," she said, deciding to try to salvage the conversation into something more normal, "if you're not here for the bakery tour or the local sights, why are you in this neighborhood? I assume professional footballers don't usually hang around small family bakeries."

He swallowed his mouthful with effort. "I have my reasons."

"Mysterious. How very... enigmatic of you."

He shot her a sharp look, trying to determine if she was mocking him.

"I used to visit this area," he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "A long time ago. I'm... reacquainting myself with old haunts."

"Oh? Did you grow up around here?"

"Something like that."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he seemed content to leave it at that, instead focusing on his rusks with that same intense attention.

"Well," she said, leaning against the counter, "if you're going to be reacquainting yourself with the neighborhood, you should probably try some of our other offerings. The Streuselkuchen is actually amazing, and the Apfelstrudel—"

"Rusks are fine."

"But—"

"I said rusks are fine." There was a note of finality in his voice that made her pause.

"Okay," she said slowly. "Rusks it is, then. Though I have to say, you're possibly our least adventurous customer ever."

"I know what I like."

"Apparently." She studied him for a moment, taking in the expensive-looking athletic wear, the carefully styled hair, the air of someone who was used to getting exactly what he wanted. "Can I ask you something?"

He tensed fractionally. "What?"

"Why rusks specifically? I mean, they're good—great, even—but they're pretty basic compared to some of our other options. Is it nostalgia or something?"
His jaw tightened. "Or something."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she found herself caught by the intensity in his blue eyes. There was something there—something that felt like it was trying to communicate a message she couldn't quite interpret.

"You're very strange," she said finally.

"I've been called worse."

"I believe that." She smiled despite herself. "But strange in an interesting way, at least."

Something in his expression softened fractionally. "Interesting?"

"Well, you're certainly not boring. Most customers just order their bread and leave. You show up, demand rusks, eat them like they've personally wronged you, and refuse to explain any of it. It's..." she searched for the word, "intriguing."

"Intriguing," he repeated, and there was something almost satisfied in his tone. He studied her face for a moment, then seemed to deflate slightly. “So you really don’t follow football at all?”

“Not really, sorry. I’m more into books than sports.” She offered an apologetic shrug. “But that doesn’t make your achievements less impressive, even if I don’t understand all the technical details.”

“Books,” he repeated, latching onto this new information with surprising intensity. “What kind of books?”

“All kinds? Fantasy, mystery, historical fiction. I went through a major fairy tale phase when I was younger.” She laughed at the memory. “I used to believe in all of it—magic, princes, happily ever afters, the whole package.”

Something complicated crossed his expression. “Used to?”

“Well, you grow up, don’t you? Reality sets in.” She plucked at a loose thread on her apron. “Turns out princes are just normal people and fairy godmothers don’t exist. Though I guess professional athletes are kind of like modern princes—famous, wealthy, admired by masses of people.”

“That’s not…” he started, then stopped, frustration evident in every line of his body. “Being a prince isn’t about fame or wealth. It’s about… it’s about someone seeing you as worth their effort. Worth their time and attention and care.”

The passion in his voice surprised her. “That’s a very specific definition.”

“It’s the correct one,” he said firmly, then seemed to catch himself. “Or at least, it should be.”

They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence after that, with him finishing his rusks at a more reasonable pace while she enjoyed the garden’s peaceful atmosphere. The afternoon sun filtered through the apple tree’s leaves, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow across the table.

“You said you’re here for the summer?” he asked eventually. “Helping your grandmother?”

“Yes, just until the end of August. Then I go back to Berlin for university.”

His expression darkened. “You’re leaving again.”

“Again?” She frowned. “I just got here.”

“Right. Of course.” He looked away, jaw clenching. “What are you studying?”

“Literature and education. I want to be a teacher eventually.” She found herself relaxing as they talked, his earlier intensity mellowing into something almost like normal conversation. “What about you? Do you have interests outside of football?”

“Football is everything,” he said automatically, then paused. “But I… I read sometimes. Strategy books, mostly. Biographies of great players and leaders.”

“All about winning and conquest, then?” she teased gently.

“What else is there?” He said it seriously, like he genuinely couldn’t conceive of another purpose.

“Connection?” she offered. “Understanding people? Finding meaning beyond competition?”

He stared at her like she’d spoken a foreign language. “You can’t build an empire on connection.”

“Who said anything about empires?”

“I did. That’s what I’m building—my empire. A legacy that no one will forget. So that when people think of excellence, of dominance, of absolute superiority in football, they think of one name.” He leaned forward, blue eyes intense. “Mine.”

There was something almost vulnerable in the way he said it, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

“That sounds lonely,” she said quietly.

“It’s not lonely if everyone knows your name,” he countered, but there was a hollowness in his voice that suggested he didn’t quite believe it.

“Knowing someone’s name isn’t the same as knowing them,” she pointed out. “You could be famous across the world and still be lonely if no one really sees you.”

He went very still. “And what do you see?”

The question caught her off guard with its sudden intensity. She studied him—really looked at him—trying to see past the perfect features and expensive clothes and carefully cultivated persona.

“I see someone who takes his rusks very seriously,” she said lightly, trying to ease the tension. “And who gets adorably pouty when things don’t go his way.”

“I do not pout,” he said, immediately proving her point by doing exactly that.

She laughed, delighted. “You’re literally pouting right now!”

“This is not pouting, this is dignified displeasure,” he insisted, which only made her laugh harder.

“If you say so, Your Majesty.”

They fell into a more comfortable silence, with him finishing his rusks at a slightly less aggressive pace while she tidied up the counter. It was strange how quickly his presence had gone from unsettling to almost... pleasant. Like they'd fallen into a rhythm she hadn't known she was looking for.

"I should probably know your name," she said suddenly. "Since you seem to be becoming a regular customer. I'm—"

"I know who you are," he interrupted, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "I mean, the old woman mentioned you yesterday. Her granddaughter."

"Right. But you haven't told me yours."

He paused, something complicated passing across his face. For a moment, she thought he might not answer.

"Kaiser," he said finally.

"Kaiser?" She tested the name, finding she liked how it felt in her mouth. "Like emperor?"

"Exactly like emperor."

A grin spread across her face. "Well, that certainly suits you."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"The name. Kaiser. It suits you." She gestured at him vaguely. "You've got this whole... emperor-like appearance thing going on. Very commanding. Very 'kneel before me, peasants.'"

She meant it as a compliment—because it was true, there was something undeniably regal about him, from his posture to his features to the way he seemed to expect the world to bend to his will.

But the expression that crossed his face wasn't satisfaction or pride.

It was something closer to pain.

"I... see," he said, his voice carefully controlled.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No." He straightened, gathering his empty wrapper and the bag of extra rusks. "You're perfectly right. Kaiser suits me. It's exactly what I am."

He stood, gathering his empty rusk papers with careful precision. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Same order?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Obviously.” Then, as he started to leave, he paused and looked back at her. “I enjoyed this. Talking with you. Learning about… books and teaching and what you see.”

There was something raw in his voice that made her chest feel strange.

“I enjoyed it too,” she admitted. “Feel free to use the garden whenever you want. You seem calmer here.”

His smile, when it came, was small but genuine. “Same time tomorrow, then. And…” He hesitated, then added with elaborate casualness, “Maybe you could tell me more about that fairy tale phase of yours. What kind of stories you believed in.”

“Sure,” she agreed easily, not noticing how his eyes lit up at her acceptance. “I’d be happy to.”

She watched him leave, then found herself wandering back into the kitchen almost on autopilot. Her hands moved automatically, pulling out ingredients, measuring flour, beginning the familiar process of making rusks.

It was only when she was halfway through mixing the dough that she realized what she was doing.

“Getting a head start on tomorrow’s order?” her grandmother asked, appearing beside her with that knowing smile.

“I just assumed he’d want the same thing,” she defended herself. “Seems efficient to prepare ahead.”

“Mmm, very efficient,” her grandmother agreed in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe the efficiency excuse for a second. “And how was your chat with our footballer?”

“Strange,” she admitted. “He’s… intense. And kind of eccentric. Gets genuinely upset about the weirdest things.” She paused in her mixing. “But not in a bad way? More like… endearingly dramatic. Like a very passionate cat.”

Her grandmother’s laugh was warm and fond. “A passionate cat. What an interesting description.”

“He did smile, though. At the end.” She found herself smiling at the memory. “A real smile, not that practiced perfect one he usually wears. It made him look younger. Sweeter.”

“Did it now?” Her grandmother’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “How interesting that you noticed.”

“Oma,” she said warningly, recognizing that tone.

“I’m not saying anything,” her grandmother replied innocently. “Just that it’s nice to see you making friends. Even if you don’t remember making them before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But her grandmother was already shuffling away, humming to herself in a way that suggested she found something highly amusing.

Later that evening, as she finished the advance batch of rusks and carefully stored them for tomorrow, she found her thoughts drifting back to their conversation. To the passion in his voice when he talked about building his empire, the vulnerability hidden beneath all that arrogant posturing, the way he’d lit up like a kid when she’d invited him to the garden.

Kaiser. It did suit him, she decided. Not just because of his appearance or his ambitions, but because of that inherent contradiction—desperate to be seen as superior and untouchable while simultaneously seeking something more genuine beneath all the performance.

She wondered what he’d been like as a child. Probably just as intense, just as determined to prove himself. Maybe a bit awkward, all sharp edges and unearned confidence.

The thought made her smile as she turned off the kitchen lights.

Tomorrow, she decided, she’d ask him more about his football career. Not because she cared about sports, but because he clearly cared about it so much, and there was something compelling about watching someone talk about their passion, even if she didn’t share it.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d figure out why he kept looking at her like he expected her to remember something important.

-----

Meanwhile, Kaiser walked back to the Bastard Munchen quarters with his empty rusk papers crumpled in his fist and his mind racing.

She’d called him Kaiser. Not Michael, not His Highness, just… Kaiser. And she’d said it suited him because of his emperor-like appearance.

Wrong. It was all wrong.

She was supposed to remember him as her prince, supposed to recognize that the empire he’d built was just an evolution of the throne she’d first given him. But instead, she looked at him and saw only the persona he’d constructed for the world—the arrogant emperor, the untouchable star, the walking crown.

Not the boy who’d once treasured every rusk she made, who’d hoarded her attention like a dragon hoarded gold, who’d felt like royalty simply because she’d treated him like he mattered.

But then she’d invited him to the garden.

Kaiser unclenched his fist, smoothing out the rusk papers with careful precision. She’d invited him to their spot—even if she didn’t remember it was their spot—and they’d talked. Really talked, not just him dropping increasingly desperate hints while she remained obliviously cheerful.

She’d called him adorably pouty. Had laughed at his expense, but not cruelly. Had seen past his carefully constructed superiority to something more genuine underneath, even if she couldn’t identify what that something was.

And tomorrow, she’d tell him about her fairy tale phase. About the stories she used to believe in, the magic she’d once accepted as real.

Maybe, if he was patient, if he played this right, he could guide her back to those memories. Could make her understand what she’d forgotten without having to humiliate himself by spelling it out.

Kaiser looked down at his hands—at the blue rose tattoo that wrapped around his wrist, the symbol of achieving the impossible he’d claimed for himself after escaping his father.

Making her remember wouldn’t be impossible. Difficult, frustrating, requiring more patience than he usually possessed—but not impossible.

And Michael Kaiser had built his entire career on achieving the impossible.

This would be no different.

He’d return tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. He’d sit in that garden and eat her rusks and learn about her books and her dreams and all the things he’d been too self-absorbed to ask about when they were children.

And slowly, piece by piece, he’d rebuild the connection she’d forgotten.

Not as her prince this time.

As her emperor.

And she would remember. She had to.

Because the alternative—that she could spend weeks baking for him, caring for him, looking at him like he mattered, and then forget him completely—was unacceptable.

Michael Kaiser did not accept being forgotten.

And he always, always got what he wanted in the end.