The Baker Princess and the Prince Who Loved Midnight Tea — Continued 🍞🌙

The first winter after Maribel and Alaric married arrived softly, like a polite guest who knocked before entering.

Snow dusted Honeyvale’s rooftops and settled into the window ledges of the royal bakery. Inside, the ovens worked overtime, filling the air with warmth and the comforting scent of cinnamon, honey, and butter. Maribel moved through the space with practiced joy, humming while kneading dough, her apron already dusted white.

Alaric watched from a small table near the window, a teacup warming his hands.

“You know,” he said gently, “most queens do not wake up before sunrise to argue with bread.”

Maribel glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Most queens don’t marry princes who think noon is early.”

He smiled into his cup.

Marriage, it turned out, suited them beautifully.

They had learned each other’s rhythms—not by forcing them to match, but by letting them overlap.

Maribel still woke with the sun. Alaric still came alive after dark. Somewhere between late afternoon pastries and midnight tea, they found each other every day.

Sometimes it was in the bakery, flour smudged on both their faces.

Sometimes it was on the palace balcony, wrapped in blankets, sharing stories under lantern light.

Sometimes it was in comfortable silence, just being close.

Love didn’t feel dramatic.

It felt right.

One evening, as snow began falling thicker than usual, Alaric noticed Maribel staring out the window, her smile quieter than normal.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She hesitated. “I’m thinking about Nightmere.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good thoughts, I hope.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “But… your people. Winter there is harsher. I worry.”

Alaric set his teacup down and took her hands.

“They’ll be fine,” he assured her. Then, softer, “But they’d be better if you visited.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“You,” he said, nodding. “With your bread and warmth and impossible optimism.”

She laughed nervously. “What if they don’t like me?”

He smiled, slow and fond. “They will. Eventually. They don’t stand a chance.”

Nightmere in winter was exactly as Maribel imagined—and worse.

Stone streets. Gray skies. Wind that bit like it had teeth.

The people were polite but reserved, bundled in layers thicker than their expressions. The bakery she requested was granted—an empty hall near the square, cold and unused.

Maribel rolled up her sleeves anyway.

“If the oven works,” she said cheerfully, “everything else will follow.”

Alaric watched her light the fire, his chest swelling with something dangerously close to pride.

At first, no one came.

Maribel baked anyway.

She baked bread that smelled like comfort. Pastries filled with jam and warmth. Rolls so soft they almost melted in your hands.

By evening, someone peeked through the door.

Then another.

Then a child, tugged inside by curiosity.

By the third day, there was a line.

Nightmere didn’t smile much—but it ate very well.

Alaric noticed the change before anyone admitted it.

Lanterns stayed lit longer. Conversations lingered. People stood closer together, cups warming their hands, bread warming their spirits.

One older woman approached Maribel with careful seriousness.

“This reminds me of when my husband was alive,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

Maribel hugged her without thinking.

The woman froze—then hugged back.

Alaric turned away, blinking.

On the final night, as snow fell gently outside the bakery windows, Maribel leaned against Alaric’s shoulder.

“I was scared,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t want to fail them.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “You reminded them they’re human.”

She smiled. “You do that for me.”

He kissed her temple.

“And you remind me that happiness doesn’t need permission.”

They returned to Honeyvale with tired feet and full hearts.

From then on, a small Nightmere-style tea corner appeared in the bakery—dark wood, quiet lamps, deep cushions. And in Nightmere, a bakery remained, permanently warm.

Maribel baked less alone.

Alaric drank tea less quietly.

They learned that love, like baking, needed patience—but also trust.

And every night, no matter how busy the day had been, they shared one ritual.

Midnight tea.

Fresh bread.

Hands entwined.

🌙💛 Because the happiest endings aren’t endings at all—

they’re the gentle choice to keep showing up for each other, one warm moment at a time. 💛🌙