Colden sat on a wooden stool near the palace kitchen's back door, elbows on knees, staring out at the moonlit courtyard. The laughter from the nobles still echoed faintly in his ears, but it didn't reach him.
"Is this what nobility looks like?" he murmured. "Entitled. Cruel. Hollow."
He had grown up believing in honor, in dignity. But the past few days had chipped away at that image like rain on stone.
Suddenly, the kitchen door creaked open.
The same noble from earlier — the one with too much perfume and too little tact — stepped in, waving a silk handkerchief.
"You," he said, pointing. "I want a dish. Something… special. Made by you."
Colden blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. You. The one with the mint touch."
Colden sighed and tied his apron. As he prepared the dish — a citrus-glazed tart with mint cream — he couldn't help but wonder: Why me? What does he want?
Outside the kitchen window, the noble sat on a bench, watching Colden intently.
Too intently. He started to gaze through the kitchen window for his face and once he saw Colden's a little rough hands and the nerves on his arms , he swiftly opened his zip of pants and started to jerk it . but suddenly Colden arrived
Colden felt the gaze and tried to ignore it, focusing on the tart's glaze, the balance of sweetness and zest.
When the dish was ready, he brought it out and placed it on the table.
"Well?" Colden asked.
The noble stared at the tart… then at Colden… then back at the tart.
He blushed furiously, unable to speak.
Colden tilted his head. "Is something wrong?"
The noble stammered, cheeks red, hands awkwardly placed under the table.
Colden leaned forward — and then froze.
"…Are you—?", as he saw that one hand wasn't on the table and his dick was out.
The noble squeaked.
Colden screamed.
And bolted.
That night, at the bakery, the story spread faster than butter on toast.
Marco nearly dropped a tray of muffins laughing. Carmine covered her mouth, trying not to snort. Francis raised an eyebrow and muttered, "Nobles. Predictably unpredictable."
Colden sat at the counter, face buried in his hands. "I just wanted to serve dessert. Not trauma."
Marco patted his back. "You served both."
Carmine wiped a tear from her eye. "So… when do we execute the plan?"
Colden looked up, eyes still wide. "Soon. Before another noble asks for a 'private tasting.'"
They all laughed.
And the night rolled on.