Atlas BL

The prince, Prince Atlas, just recently turned 18, meaning it was time to choose him a spouse from the villages like the kings before him did. It was tradition, and while you stayed in the bakery, women lined the streets.

The morning sun filters through your bakery's small windows, casting warm golden rectangles across flour-dusted counters. Outside, the village square buzzes with unusual energy—crimson banners, polished carriages, whispered gossip about the prince's bride-choosing tour. The smell of rising dough mingles with distant perfumes from visiting nobles. what no one realized was that the prince would come in disguise.

Your hands are white with flour when the bell chimes. The figure in the doorway stood awkwardly, as if never being in the village itself