channie

Some hearts are worth waiting a thousand years for

The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always hangs heavy in the midnight air of the kitchen. It's comforting, warm, familiar, and completely separate from the cold, stoned streets of the village beyond these walls, which encompass your life. You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand, leaning over the heavy wooden workstation to knead the first batch of dough for tomorrow's, well, today's morning rush.

Deep in concentration, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. But you don't even have to look up to know who it is.

"You're late," you say, keeping your voice flat, still pounding the dough, though a familiar beat of warmth thumps against your ribs. "Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"

"A gentleman is never late, sweetheart. He arrives precisely when he means to," Jungkook says, his voice a smooth, playful purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the main bakery area. "And I told you to stop calling me that." He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded, oversized linen tunic and dark trousers. The entire kingdom knows the face of Prince Jungkook, though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery. He pushes his hood back, revealing strands of unruly dark hair and those ridiculously large, glittering doe eyes which you can't stare into for too long without feeling heat crawl up your neck.

You sigh, ignoring him as you turn around to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, but, of course, it is sitting on the absolute highest shelf, tucked away near the ceiling. You huff, stepping up onto your tiptoes, stretching your arms as high as they can go. Your fingers brush the base of the jar, but you cannot for the life of you get a proper grip. Suddenly, a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back. All you feel is lean muscle as the heat of him radiates through your apron. Then an arm clad in faded linen reaches up over your head, his large hand wrapping around the jar. You will yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on the prominent veins running across his forearms to his hands.

"Need a hand, love?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You drop back onto your heels, turning around within the small space he has trapped you in. His free hand comes down to rest casually on the edge of the shelf beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He looks down at you, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips as he hands you the cinnamon. Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.

"I had it under control, Crown Prince," you shoot back, tapping the jar against his chest to force him to take a step back.

"Right, maybe from over there you did, but from here, all I saw was you hopping up and down like a grasshopper," he teases before turning back.

And before you can swat at him, his hand shoots out toward the cooling racks. You attempt to block him with an elbow, but he uses his height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. Ones you had just made as a test batch, so the recipe was perfect for the morning rush. He pops the entire thing into his mouth in one go.

"Hey!" You glare, swatting at his arm with your flour-covered hand, leaving a stark white handprint on his dark sleeve. "Do you have any idea how early I had to wake up to prep those? The yeast has to rise for hours, Jungkook! Hours!"

Jungkook chews happily, closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm. So worth it. You outdid yourself, truly." He leans his hip against your table, entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the crisp night air and something rich, clean, and faintly expensive. He points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter. "What do we have here?" His eyes are lit with nothing short of mischief.

"Don't you dare-"

Too late.

He dips his index finger straight into the bowl, swirling it around before sucking the batter off with shameless, slow deliberateness. He locks eyes with you, a wicked, teasing tilt to his lips. "Sweet. " He pauses. "Just like the baker."

You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks. "You are an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep letting you break into my shop. I really need to invest in a heavier deadbolt. Or tell the royal guards that their beloved prince is a little sugar thief."

"Because you love me," he says instantly, shifting his weight around the table to follow your movements like a shadow, or more like a separation-anxiety ridden puppy. "And because I am excellent company. Who else is going to help you with labour at one in the morning for the low price of sugar? Besides, the guards would never believe you."

"A public nuisance is what you are," you correct, though your lips twitch. You turn to a tray of unadorned cupcakes and sigh, handing him a backup piping bag filled with sweet vanilla buttercream. "If you're going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Pipe the tops of those. Like this." You demonstrate a perfect, elegant swirl on one, pulling the tip up to create a flawless peak.

Jungkook takes the bag, his chest puffing out with entirely unwarranted confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."

He grips the bag with way too much force, causing an explosion of frosting that lands on the cupcake, tilting precariously to one side like a melting snowman before sliding off the edge completely.

You burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "A master? Jungkook, it looks like a squashed toad!"

"It's abstract! It has personality!" he protests, bumping his shoulder heavily against yours to disrupt your balance. He looks down at your laughing face, his own expression softening into something incredibly tender. His eyes track the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, capturing the exact shade of warmth in your smile. "See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."

"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.

After a few minutes and many fails later, he gets the hang of it, leaving you to grab a heavy wooden spoon and begin vigorously beating a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough. You hate this part the most. After a long day, hours of selling and continuously running through the main shop and the kitchen, creating new batches and noting down special orders, the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the non-stop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough, makes your wrists ache. Your movements slow slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.

As Jungkook continues piping, he glances at your figure a few times, as if it's second nature, and tracks the sudden lag in your rhythm. His eyes soften, the playful posture shifting into something much more attentive, which goes unnoticed by you. He steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the wooden spoon. His palm is warm, broad, and calloused from sword training.

"Hey," he says softly, his shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell burning."

"What? No, it's not, I just put it-"

"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, smoothly applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.

Before you can protest further, he completely takes over, his muscular forearm flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with absolute, effortless ease. It's only when you reach the hearth, and you find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he invented such a thing so you could rest your tired wrist.

You cross your arms with a small smile, and you lean against the counter, watching him work. "Look at you. Future monarch doing manual labour in a village kitchen. Oh, if the King could see you now, he'd strip you of your title."

"Let him," Jungkook grunts with a grin, not missing a beat as he whips the dough into a perfect, uniform consistency. "I'd make a fantastic baker's assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."

"You don't even have an apron on," you point out, laughing.

"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant bunny-toothed smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing, sliding the perfect dough toward you. "There. Perfect. What's next, pretty lady?"

You roll your eyes at the name. "We need to pour this batter into the tins," you say, dragging a heavy ceramic bowl of vanilla batter and two circular metal tins toward the centre of the table.

"I've got it," Jungkook volunteers eagerly. He lifts the heavy ceramic bowl, and you try not to pay attention to the way his biceps strain slightly against the linen shirt. He tips it over the first tin, carefully pouring the thick, pale-yellow ribbon of batter into the centre until it fills it perfectly. He moves to the second tin, pouring the remainder.

Once the bowl is mostly empty, he sets it down and picks up a long spatula. He meticulously scrapes the remaining thick batter from the inside walls of the bowl, gathering a massive, delicious glob of it onto the edge of the spatula. He brings it up toward his face, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to lick it clean.

"Ah-ah-ah," you say quickly, swatting his wrist away. "No way. I did all the measuring for that batter. That's mine."

You grab the end of the spatula handle. Jungkook blinks, then a surprised, but competitive spark instantly ignites his doe eyes. He tightens his grip, tugging it back towards himself. "I did the pouring! And the scraping! Royal decree dictates that the scraper gets the reward."

"There is no such royal decree," you laugh, pulling the spatula towards your side. "You're abusing your power, Your Highness!"

"I am a prince, I can make up whatever laws I want to," he gasps dramatically, pulling back.

You step closer, using your leverage to yank on the handle. For a second, you are pulled completely into his space, your hands tangled together on the thin piece of wood, faces inches apart. You can see the faint amber flecks in his eyes and the absolute amusement radiating from him.

Jungkook looks down at your determined face, his gaze dropping to your lips before a wicked, triumphant grin splits across his face.

Suddenly, he completely lets go of the spatula.

Because you were pulling so hard, you stumbled backwards a step, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"

"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with amusement.

Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive, heavy ceramic mixing bowl that still has a generous coating of thick batter stuck to the bottom and sides. He lifts it, completely sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and popping it into his mouth.

"Fine, keep the tiny spatula," he mutters happily from inside the bowl, his voice echoing. "I have the motherlode."

"Jungkook!" You burst out laughing, completely scandalised. "You are a literal child! Get your face out of my bowl!"

He pulls his head out, a tiny dollop of yellow batter sitting right on the tip of his nose. He looks incredibly ridiculous and remarkably cute all at once. He steps closer to you, his eyes locking onto yours with an unbearable amount of playful intensity.

"You have something right..." you start, pointing at your own nose.

"Where? Here?" he asks, deliberately wiping his cheek instead, smearing it further.

"No, you idiot, let me-"

You step in, reaching up with your thumb to gently wipe the batter off the tip of his nose. The moment your skin touches his, Jungkook freezes. The childish playfulness drops away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His gaze drops, heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your fingers, then the curve of your jaw, and finally resting on your eyes.

The kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire. His breath is warm against your skin. You feel your own breath hitch, your thumb lingering against his nose for a second too long.

A slow, devastatingly tender smile stretches across his lips. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.

"You know, you're very bossy for a regular citizen," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy, late-night register that makes your heart beat erratically against your ribs.

"And you're very compliant for a future king," you whisper back, trying to maintain your defences, though the proximity is making it impossible to think straight.

"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing to trace your wrist. "I don't let anyone else order me around like this. I think I like it."

You clear your throat, gently pulling your wrist from his grip to hide the bright blush creeping up your neck. You turn away to hide your burning cheeks, reaching for a small plate hidden under a glass dome on the back shelf. "Shut up and try this. I've been working on it all afternoon. Consider it payment for your... impeccable assistant work."

On the plate sits a pastry you’ve been experimenting with: dozens of microscopically thin, crispy layers of golden dough, stacked high with rich, velvety custard and fresh cream sandwiched between them, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.

"What is it?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder, his chest practically pressed against your back again, completely erasing the distance you just tried to create.

"Just shut up and try it," you say, handing him a small fork.

He takes a bite. The audible, delicate crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the smoothness of the cream. Jungkook freezes completely. His eyes widen to twice their size. Without saying a word, he devours the rest of the pastry in two massive bites, nearly groaning out loud.

"Marry me," he says flatly. "I'm serious. Name the day. We can live right here in this kitchen. I will waive the royal dowry, I will fight the council, I don't care. I will do nothing but eat this and look at you for the rest of my days."

You laugh loudly, shoving his shoulder hard to create some space. "So dramatic." You reply back.

"So in love."

"So in need of therapy." You mutter back, turning to grab a handful of loose flour to dust the wooden surface, the fine white powder settling like mist.

The frantic energy of the kitchen slows down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. Jungkook works right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a quiet focus as he tries to correct his piping technique, finishing the cupcakes, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in pure concentration.

Then, the kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound left is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, rhythmic thud of your palms against the dough.

You feel a sudden weight on you, a gaze so intense it feels tangible against your skin. You glance up, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes, and catch him.

Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. He is leaning his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the wooden counter, his eyes fixed entirely on you. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, tracking the curve of your jaw, the sweat dampening the nape of your neck, the fierce determination on your brow. There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, deep, and filled with an intense, quiet gravity that makes your breath hitch completely.

"What?" you ask, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You try to sound annoyed, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays you. "Is there flour on my face again?"

Jungkook doesn't blink. A smile stretches across his lips, his voice drops again, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Nope. Just looking at something beautiful."

You feel the heat rush from your chest all the way to your hairline. You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands, and a sudden, heavy wave of insecurity twists in your stomach. It’s a reminder that always haunts the back of your mind. He is the Crown Prince. You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast, impossible chasm that lies between your worlds.

"You are a terrifyingly smooth talker, Your Highness," you say, your voice turning a little hollow as you force yourself to look back up at him. "I suppose this is the exact same poetry you feed to the high-born noble ladies at the palace court."

Jungkook’s smile falters slightly, his doe eyes tracking the subtle drop in your shoulders, his sharp instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and crown jewels."

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you say, huffing a breath but still kneading the dough on the counter. "Why do you even come here? You have an entire court of perfect, beautiful women at your feet. You should be spending your time there with them, not in a drab bakery."

You pause. The next words come out in a whisper you hope he doesn't hear. "You could be with women who actually know how to dance, with titles, who wear silk and velvet instead of aprons caked in dried dough. They don't smell like yeast and sweat."

But he does, and the playful demeanour completely evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with an undeniable warmth.

He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the dough. Press. Then push. Then fold. Then turn. And repeat. Don't look up.

But he doesn't let you hide. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently taking your wrists, halting your movements. His palms are warm and incredibly grounding.

"Look at me," he commands softly. You don't.

"Hey…" He trails off, voice unbelievably gentle, "Please?"

How can you say no to him?

When you finally look up into his eyes, you find them swimming with a fierce, profound sincerity.

"None of them." He pauses, "Are you." His voice is a low, intense whisper that rings clearly in the quiet kitchen. He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "The court ladies are hollow, Y/N. They smile because they were trained to; they speak from rehearsed scripts; and they look at me like I'm a crown to be won, a stepping stone for their families. But you? This?"

He leans closer, head tilting down so your eyes are entirely locked. He wants you to feel how much he means every word.

"I'd rather be no place else. You're real. You're fierce, you're brilliant, and you look at me like I'm just a man. I don't want silk, and I don't care about their perfect poise. I want this. I want the smell of yeast and sugar, and I want to spend my evenings with the pretty little baker who threatens to throw rolling pins at my royal head."

Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the sheer weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long, agonising second, and you think you might actually combust from the heat spreading through your veins.

Sensing the overwhelming tension and desperate to save your blushing face from melting, a familiar, wicked spark suddenly reignites in Jungkook’s eyes. He lets go of one of your hands and steps to the side.

Before you can even process the emotional whiplash, he blows a sharp puff of air across the workstation. A massive cloud of white flour erupts directly onto your face. You gasp, coughing, your eyelashes completely coated in white powder. Through the white haze, you see him throwing his head back, laughing loudly, looking immensely proud of his childish distraction.

"Oh, it is so on," you hiss.

You scoop up a massive, double handful of flour and throw it straight at his chest. It hits him with a satisfying, heavy thwack, turning his dark tunic completely white from collar to waist. Jungkook’s jaw drops in utter shock, his laughter cutting off. He retaliates by pinching more flour before sprinkling it over your head, coating your hair in white. You squirm, laughing as you grab another handful and go to move around the bench, but your shoes slip on the pile of flour that has accumulated on the floor, and you are sent plummeting to the ground. Jungkook is faster, though, of course, and he manages to hold onto you, one hand on your arm and the other firm against your waist as he manages to pull you back up.

"Falling for me already?" His lips upturn in a playful smirk.

You scoff, already pushing away from him, "You wish, rich boy."

You both laugh. And the next few hours continue like that. You love the back-and-forth; it calms you after a long day and prepares you for the next. You truly relish these moments, that is, until you gaze up and notice the sky outside, the dark midnight lighting slightly.

"You should get going, Jungkook, dawn's coming, and I should rest before prepping for the morning." You explain.

He whines, pouting his bottom lip in a way that makes him look like an oversized puppy, but he relents. He walks to the back door, pausing to look back at you, the playful smirk returning to his face as he pulls his hood back up over his dark hair. "See you tomorrow, my beautiful baker. Try not to miss your prince too much."

"Oh, that won't be difficult at all, Jungkook," you say, and he holds his chest, mocking a dagger struck through his heart, but you’re smiling wide as the door clicks shut, the quiet warmth of his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

The next morning brings a particularly bitter cold. The sun has barely crested the horizon when you set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh, golden loaves of bread and warm rolls.

You return inside to tend to the ovens, glancing out the large front glass window. The village market is starting to wake up. The other store owners are sweeping outside their doors and beating the rugs. The stall owners are setting up their carts with small chatter amongst them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.

Through the glass, you also notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward your outdoor display. It’s the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. They look emaciated, their ribs practically visible through their tattered rags, and your heart cracks slightly at the sight.

One of them, a little boy no older than six, reaches up and snatches a small loaf of bread. But before you can even open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside for more, a harsh, booming voice echoes through the square.

"Thieves! Drop it!"

Two royal guards, clad in gleaming, heavy iron armour, march out from the shadows. They look bored, angry, and eager for a distraction. The children shriek, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, but one guard lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him completely off the ground. The child wails in terror.

The second guard unclips a heavy, thick leather lash from his belt, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, brat."

Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You throw the bakery door open, sprinting out into the freezing air.

"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, throwing yourself into the scene.

The guard with the whip pauses, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Move aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They require consequence."

"It's my bread!" you say breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s my shop! I don't mind. I was giving it to them. They didn't steal anything, I swear."

The guard holding the boy sneers, dropping the child to the dirt, where he scurries behind your skirts, clinging on to them for dear life. "Do not lie to the Crown's authority, baker. We saw them take it. If you harbour thieves, you share their guilt. Now step away before we make an example out of you, too."

These guards are notorious. They are brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crown grants them over the poor villagers. You look down at the crying child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts, and a stubborn wave of protectiveness washes over you.

"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... strike me. Leave them alone."

The guard with the whip cuts a dark, ugly glare toward you. "You want to take the punishment for a bunch of gutter rats? Fine by me. The law demands blood for theft. Now kneel."

You look around the square. A few villagers have stopped to watch, but they immediately look away, hurrying along, terrified of getting involved.

No one is going to help you. You don't expect them to.

You swallow hard, your knees hitting the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. You pull your hair to the side, exposing the back of your thin cotton chemise. You brace yourself, gripping your knees tightly.

Crack.

The first strike tears through the air and slices directly across your upper back.

A choked, agonising shriek tears from your throat. It feels like a line of liquid fire has been seared into your flesh. The sheer force of the blow knocks you forward, your palms slamming into the dirt. Tears sting your eyes instantly, blurring your vision.

"That's for the first brat," the guard grunts.

Crack.

The second strike hits, the leather biting into the exact same raw skin. You gasp, your lungs seizing.

"That's for the second."

Crack.

The third blow tears your chemise open at the side, the fabric ripping away as the leather draws blood. You press your forehead against the freezing ground, sobbing silently as you pray for it to end.

"And that's for the third," the guard sneers. He pauses, looking down at your trembling, broken form, but his eyes only gleam with a deeper cruelty. "But you opened your mouth to the Crown's authority, didn't you, girl? You think you can talk back to us?"

Crack.

The fourth strike is harder, delivered with the full weight of his arm. A ragged scream escapes your lips, your vision flashing white. The pain is blinding, radiating across your entire torso.

"And this one..." The guard chuckles, raising the whip one last time just to satisfy his own twisted amusement. "...just because I feel like it." He says low, only for your ears to hear.

Crack.

The fifth strike shatters whatever strength you have left. You collapse entirely onto the cold cobblestones, your chest heaving as deep, agonising tremors wrack your body.

They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, agonisingly, you push yourself up. Your vision swims. You stagger back into the bakery, your hands shaking so violently you can barely turn the lock. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, then wince as you draw the thick curtains shut.

You stumble up the narrow wooden stairs to your small apartment on the second floor. In the tiny bathroom, you try to peer into the cracked mirror, but you can’t see the damage properly. Reaching behind yourself with a wet cloth, you touch the wounds, and a fresh wave of sobbing breaks out. It hurts too much. You can't reach it properly to clean it. Blindly, you wrap a clean strip of linen around your torso, pinning it clumsily, though you know it's too loose.

Exhausted, broken, and throbbing with a relentless, burning agony, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets.

Hours pass. Eventually, the sheer restlessness of the pain forces you out of bed. You can’t lie down comfortably, and you can’t sit up straight. You're exhausted. But you drag yourself back downstairs into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today, you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, but you need a distraction. You begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.

Jungkook is practically skipping through the crowded, muddy alleyways of the lower village, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark wool cloak pulled tightly around his face. Thankfully, his royal duties ended earlier today, allowing him more time with you. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern citadel wall just to sneak out today, but he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in the land if it meant reaching your doorstep a second earlier than usual.

The only thing occupying his mind for the last twelve long, agonising hours has been you.

He is down bad. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly down bad.

Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about trade routes, he doesn't see crowns or maps. He sees the way your eyes crinkle into perfect, breathtaking crescents when you laugh at his ridiculous antics. He sees the faint, light dust of white flour that always seems to settle on the bridge of your nose. He wants to taste that layered cream pastry again, sure, but more than that, he just wants to hear the melodic cadence of your voice.

He wants to tease you until your stubborn pride flares up, just so he can witness that fierce, fiery spark in your eyes that makes him feel more alive than any royal decree ever could. He is a prince of the realm, surrounded by high-born court ladies who fawn over his status and offer plastic, practised smiles, but none of them holds a candle to the sharp-tongued, beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.

As he navigates the bustling market crowds, his inner monologue takes a heavier, more ache-filled turn. He is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being the mysterious visitor who has to vanish before the sun crests the horizon. He wants more. He wants to be the one who wakes up next to you, watching the morning light catch your face. He wants to hold your hand in broad daylight, right in the middle of the crowded square, and dare anyone to say a word about it. He wants you to be his, entirely and completely, but he knows how fiercely independent you are, how hard you work for your little shop, and how you probably don't feel the same. So for now, he hoards these secret hours like a dragon guarding gold. And even if he has to keep this boundary with you for the rest of his life, be nothing more, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life, in whatever way you'll have him.

He turns the final corner into the main square, a boyish grin already splitting across his face, his heart does an eager little flip against his ribs. But the moment his eyes land on the bakery, his steps instantly slow to a halt.

The outdoor display racks are completely empty. The heavy linen curtains are drawn tightly across the front windows, blocking out the daylight. The wooden sign dangling from the brass chain reads CLOSED.

Jungkook frowns, a sharp, cold knot of unease tightening in the pit of his stomach. It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour. Even when you were burning up with a fever last winter, you stubbornly dragged yourself down to the counter to sell bread, refusing to lose a single coin.

He hurries up to the heavy front door, his hand trembling slightly as he knocks loudly against the wood. "Y/N? Love? Are you in there? It's me."

Silence. The square carries on around him, completely indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.

Panicking now, his breath catching in his throat, he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley toward the back entrance. He grabs the brass handle and turns it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicks open. He's going to have a few words with you about that. He slips inside instantly, shutting the heavy door quietly behind him to keep his presence hidden.

The kitchen is cast in deep shadows, completely devoid of the usual roaring hearth fire and bustling energy. The only light comes from a single, lonely candle burning on the centre island.

Then, he spots you.

You are standing by the deep stone sink, your back completely turned to him. Your shoulders are hunched forward, your movements incredibly slow as you mindlessly wipe a copper pot with a rag.

"Hey," he says softly, exhaling a long, ragged breath of relief as he drops his hood. "You scared the absolute hell out of me. Why are the front doors locked? Did you actually sleep in for once?"

You flinch violently at the sound of his voice, your entire body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash. You don't turn around to face him. You remain entirely still, staring down into the basin. "Jungkook. What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. The shop is closed today."

Your voice sounds completely wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant, feisty warmth that usually greets him.

Jungkook's playful smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a slow step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards. "Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired." He tries to inject a tiny bit of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame. "Did you miss me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?"

"Not now, Jungkook," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your shoulders hunch even further forward, your head bowing.

You slowly reach up with both hands, attempting to place a copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. The exact moment your arms extend upward, your breath catches violently in your throat. A sharp, ragged, agonising wince escapes your lips, and your entire body shudders as you quickly drop your arms back down, your hands flying to clutch tightly at your own side to brace yourself.

Jungkook's protective instincts flare to a blinding degree. The sight of you in discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, his palm hovering just a millimetre above your trembling shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, laced with a desperate, stubborn defensiveness.

You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two deliberate steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You force a terrible, completely strained smile onto your pale lips, though your lower lip is trembling. "I just... I was moving the heavy wooden grain table earlier, and I bumped into the corner. Hit my side pretty hard. It's just a nasty bruise, Jungkook. I'm fine. Really."

Jungkook doesn't buy it for a single second.

He steps right back into your space, his gaze sweeping over you like a hawk, analysing every single detail of your appearance. His heart aches at the sight of you. You look terribly pale, the healthy flush entirely gone from your skin. Your eyes are heavily red-rimmed and puffy, surrounded by dark circles, making it glaringly obvious that you’ve been crying for hours. And your posture is completely wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if expanding your lungs fully is a luxury you can't afford right now.

Seeing you in this state genuinely, physically hurts him. It feels like a cold blade is turning in his own chest; his stomach drops, and a suffocating wave of anxiety threatens to choke him. He hates seeing you vulnerable, hates the fact that something has stolen your bright energy.

He tries to keep his composure, forcing his voice to remain calm so he doesn't spook you, until you turn slightly to the side, attempting to step away from his intense scrutiny to grab a towel.

That's when he sees it.

Through the torn fabric of your shirt, along the side of your figure, he sees the clumsy linen bandage you had tried to wrap around your own torso, which has slipped completely out of place. A small, dark red stain of fresh, wet blood is seeping heavily through the white cloth, stark and horrifying against your skin.

Jungkook’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His blood runs cold.

"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly register, entirely stripped of all playfulness. "Why is there blood on your back?"

You freeze in your tracks, your hands tightening against the fabric of your apron until your knuckles turn white. You try to let out a casual laugh, but it comes out as a pathetic, broken sob that tears right through his chest. "Blood? Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's probably just cherry jam from the tarts. I am a baker, after all, I'm always covered in-"

"Don't lie to me," he commands. The tone is quiet, but it carries the heavy, unyielding authority of a prince who will not be denied.

Before you can utter another word of deflection, he steps directly into your personal space, erasing the distance between you. His large, warm hand moves around to your back, his fingers hovering just a fraction of a millimetre above the blood-soaked bandage. He barely, infinitesimally brushes the very edge of the cloth to see what lies beneath.

The slight, feather-light pressure is a catalyst for pure agony.

A choked, absolutely agonising groan tears from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your nerve endings. Your knees completely buckle beneath you, your strength vanishing instantly as your legs give out entirely.

"Whoa- hey, look at me, I've got you, I've got you!" Jungkook panics, his heart leaping straight into his throat.

His arms shoot out in a blind reflex, catching you securely before your body can slam into the hard floorboards. He pulls you tightly against his chest, cradling you against his solid frame, his large doe eyes widening to twice their size with pure, unadulterated terror. He is hyper-aware of how fragile, how small you feel in his arms right now, your entire body trembling violently against him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got you," he frantically whispers, his voice shaking as he holds you up. "Talk to me, please. You have to tell me what happened. You're bleeding."

You clutch desperately at the fabric of his faded tunic, your fingernails burying into the cloth as if it's the only anchor keeping you tethered to reality. The blinding pain, the hours of lonely exhaustion, and the sudden, overwhelming comfort of his warm, safe presence break the stubborn dam holding your emotions back.

You snap completely. You bury your face into the solid crook of his neck and break down, sobbing hysterically. Deep, painful, racking wails tear from your chest, echoing loudly in the empty kitchen.

"It hurts," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely into a raw shriek. "Kook, it hurts so bad, please... I can't bear it..."

Hearing you cry like this, hearing the absolute agony in your voice, completely breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook. A wave of sheer fury crashes over his soul. He sees bright, blinding red. He is the Prince of this kingdom, and someone in his village, under his family's rule, had dared to lay their hands on you. Someone had inflicted this kind of barbaric, sickening pain on the sweetest, most selfless person he knew.

He locks that rage away into a dark corner of his mind, storing it for later, because right now, your tears are the only thing that matters.

"Let me see it," he murmurs, his voice shifting into a soothing, incredibly soft contrast to the storm raging in his chest. "Let me help you, sweetheart."

"No, it's fine, just leave it, please go away," you sob, your stubbornness flaring up one last time through the tears. You weakly try to push his chest away, hiding your face from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're a prince, Jungkook. You shouldn't be seeing me like this... it's messy, it's fine..."

"Y/N," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, though it is dripping with an unbearable amount of love and panic. He gently but firmly cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look up at him. His own eyes are shiny with unshed tears, wide and desperate as he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your wet cheek. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am not going to hurt you. I don't care about being a prince right now. I care about you. Let me see it. Please, don't do this to me. Don't push me away when I know you're hurt."

You look into his frantic, pleading eyes, seeing the genuine agony in his own expression caused purely by your pain, and your stubborn defences finally melt away. You nod weakly, letting your head fall against his chest.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispers against your hair.

He slides one arm securely under your knees and the other firmly behind your shoulders, lifting your body effortlessly into his arms. He carries you up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his movements smooth and careful, ensuring your back never brushes against a single wall or doorframe.

He carries you into your small bedroom, gently setting you down on the very edge of your bed.

The bedroom upstairs is quiet, shadowed by the late afternoon light filtering through the linen curtains. You sit on the very edge of the mattress, your knees pulled slightly toward your chest, your fingers twisting and burying into the worn bedsheets. Every shallow breath you take feels like glass slicing through your skin. Behind you, the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clink of a ceramic basin tell you that Jungkook is preparing to face whatever horror is hidden beneath your clothes.

"I'm going to pull the fabric down. Is that okay?" Jungkook’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. The playful, cocky boy from last night is completely gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.

You nod miserably, dropping your head down.

You feel his large hands settle on the collar of your dress. His touch is so light it’s almost non-existent, his fingers shake slightly as he carefully guides the torn, ruined cotton down your arms. He doesn't pull; he coaxes the fabric away, millimetre by millimetre, ensuring the rough material doesn't catch on the open wounds. As the cloth falls away, exposing your bare back to the cool air of the room, you hear him let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh cross your skin. They are swollen, with a deep, bruising purple at the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out where your movement has reopened them. The clumsy linen wrap you had tried to apply is tangled and soaked through with red.

"Who did this to you?" he asks.

The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of warmth, that it makes you freeze. If you were to turn around, you would see the menacing glare of a monarch in his eyes. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, his knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth.

"The patrol guards," you whisper into the empty room, a fresh tear tracking through the flour dust on your cheek. "In the square this morning. Some of the alley kids... they took a loaf of bread from the display. The guards… they caught them. They pulled out the lash for them. They're just babies, Jungkook. They were hungry. They wouldn't have survived it. I couldn't just watch."

You take a trembling breath, crying out slightly as the movement pulls at your skin. "I told the guards I'd take it instead. Three for each child... one for talking back... and a fifth... because he felt like it."

A suffocating silence fills the room. For a long, agonising moment, he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple villager should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers. Instead, you feel the soft, slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between your bodies.

"You are far too good for this world," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with an emotion so intense it sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart.

Then, you feel the cool, wet cloth touch the very edge of the highest welt.

You flinch violently, a sharp, broken gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets. But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with an iron-firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs gently at the bare skin on your hip.

"Shh, I know, love, I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm being as gentle as I can. Just breathe through it. Focus on my hand," he murmurs, his lips so close to your bare shoulder that his warm breath fans across your skin, offering a fleeting contrast to the stinging cold of the water.

His movements are agonisingly slow but deliberate, focused. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The sheer intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way. He treats your body like it is made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, his touch lingering over the curves of your shoulders as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.

He reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of thick, green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks. "This is going to sting at first, Y/N. But it will help the fire go out. Let me know if it's too much."

When his fingers make contact with the raw wounds, a whimper tears from your throat, and without thinking, you lean to the side, your head resting against his solid shoulder. Jungkook doesn't move. He accepts your weight fully, his chest pressing lightly against your side as he leans to the side to get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts, working with a reverent, quiet rhythm.

Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses completely. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft, comforting breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down. It feels intensely, overwhelmingly private, a sanctuary built out of raw pain and an undercurrent of heavy, undeniable devotion.

Finally, he takes a fresh roll of clean white linen bandage. To wrap it around your torso, he has to slide both of his arms completely around your waist. He leans in close, his chest flushing against your uninjured skin, effectively enveloping you in a tight embrace. You can feel the heavy beat of his heart against your shoulder blade as he pulls the cloth snug, securing it with small pins.

"There," he whispers against your ear, his hands lingering on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides before he reluctantly pulls away. "All clean. The fire should start to fade now."

You slowly turn your head, looking at him over your shoulder. His doe eyes are dark, swimming with a profound, aching yearning that terrifies you in their intensity. He looks at you not like a friend, and not like a vagabond, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.

"Lie down," he commands softly, his voice thick, pulling the heavy wool blankets back. "Don't sleep on your back, lie on your stomach. I'm going to go brew some tea for you, okay? Don't move an inch."

You are too exhausted, too thoroughly drained of strength to argue. You crawl into the centre of the bed, resting your cheek against the pillow, and he pulls the blanket over you before leaving.

Within minutes, Jungkook returns, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his large hand gently lifting your chin to help you take a few sips of the warm, sweet liquid.

The warmth of the tea and the cooling effect of the salve make your eyelids incredibly heavy. Jungkook sets the mug on the nightstand and reaches out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch agonisingly tender.

"Thank you, Jungkook," you slurry, your eyes fluttering shut as darkness tugs at the edges of your mind. "For staying."

He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. He lingers there before pulling away and resting a hand over yours on the pillow beside you. "I will always stay," he whispers against your skin, his voice sounding far away. "Sleep now, my beautiful baker."

He stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, and occasionally massaging your scalp, his other hand firm on top of your own until you drift off. The moment your breathing evens out into a deep, heavy slumber, the lingering softness completely evaporates from Jungkook’s face.

He stands up from the edge of the mattress, his frame expanding to its full, imposing height as his expression hardens into pure, unadulterated ice. The boyish warmth that usually fills his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a vacant stillness. He looks down at you one last time, your pale face resting against the pillow, and leans over to press another gentle, feather-light kiss to your temple.

He quietly moves around the room, his boots making absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards. He sets a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruits and crackers he salvaged from your pantry. Beside it, he leaves a small piece of parchment, scrawling a quick note in his elegant, fluent script.

He writes in his usual playful tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in from pure malice:

Eat all of this. If I come back tonight and find out you haven't eaten, I'm going to steal every single pastry in the kitchen as punishment. Rest up, my pretty girl. I'll be back to cause more trouble soon~

He slips out of the bedroom, guides himself down the narrow stairs, and exits the bakery, locking the back door securely behind him.

The walk back to the palace is a blur of blinding, volcanic rage. He doesn't care about staying hidden anymore; he doesn't slip through the shadows or wait for patrols to pass. He cuts through the upper village like a wraith, his eyes fixed on the towering stone citadel ahead. People stare as he passes them, a path being made before him as people flock to the side, no doubt whispering about the stern look on his face.

He storms through the heavy iron servant entrances, slamming doors on their hinges, tearing off the faded linen tunic and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in absolute terror at the sheer aura of lethal fury radiating from the young prince. They have never seen him like this.

"Get me my royal uniform," Jungkook barks, his voice ringing through the high stone corridors like a crack of thunder. "Now."

Minutes later, he is clad in the official armour of the high crest: a dark, structured jacket lined with heavy gold trim, epaulettes resting on his broad shoulders, heavy leather combat boots, and the royal insignia pinned sharply over his chest. He looks every bit the future ruler he was born to be.

He strides down the western corridor toward the main guard barracks. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, don't just open; they slam against the stone walls with a violent, echoing crash as he kicks them through.

Dozens of off-duty guards and captains instantly freeze, dropping their dice and flagons of ale, snapping to absolute attention. The room goes dead silent.

"Who patrolled the main market square in the lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up.

Near the back of the room, two guards exchange a nervous, sweating glance. Slowly, their armour clanking in the heavy silence, they step forward and bow deeply.

So these are the brutes who had stood over you on the cobblestones.

"We did, Your Highness," the lead guard stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Is there an issue with the sector?"

Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He walks up to them with a slow, agonisingly measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes completely suffocating, the temperature practically dropping as the prince circles them. He stops directly in front of the guard, who has a heavy leather whip strapped to his belt.

"An issue?" Jungkook echoes, a terrifying, dark smile tilting the left corner of his lips, though his eyes remain dead and vacant. He peers down at the guard, who is half a head shorter than him. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning in slightly. "Tell me about your morning patrol. I want to hear about how efficiently you enforce the King's law."

The lead guard swallows hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "It was... a routine patrol, sir. We apprehended a group of street rats attempting to steal from the market stalls. We administered the standard physical deterrent to ensure compliance with crown regulations."

"A physical deterrent," Jungkook repeats, his tone almost conversational, entirely too calm. "And tell me... did these so-called street rats take the lashes?"

The guard shifts his weight, his iron greaves clanking with the movement. "No, Your Highness. A local villager stepped in. A peasant girl from the bakery. She obstructed our duty and offered to take the penalty in their stead. We accommodated her request to maintain the crown's authority in the square."

"You accommodated her," Jungkook whispers. His jaw clenches so hard the muscles flare violently against his skin. His fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists behind his back. "Five lashes. Is that correct?"

The second guard, thinking the prince is merely verifying protocol, chimes in, "Yes, sir. Three for the stolen goods, one for her insolence and talking back to the guard, and... one extra, just to ensure she remembers her place beneath the law."

The mention of the fifth lash, the one delivered purely out of sadistic amusement, shatters the final thread of Jungkook's restraint, leaving behind a monster driven by pure, protective devastation.

Without a single syllable of warning, Jungkook’s right fist shoots forward.

Crack.

His knuckles connect squarely with the lead guard's jaw with an inhuman amount of force. The sheer momentum of the blow rips the heavily armoured man off his feet, sending him flying backwards. His body crashes into a heavy oak table, splintering the thick wood into raw kindling before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.

The second guard gasps in pure shock, his eyes widening in horror as his hand flies to the hilt of his sword in a blind, conditioned reflex.

"Touch that steel," Jungkook roars, stepping into his space instantly, "and I will take your hand off your wrist."

Before the guard can even process the threat, Jungkook's royal combat training takes over. He intercepts the man's arm, his grip clamping down on the wrist like an iron vice. With a brutal, fluid twist of his upper body, he snaps the guard's wrist backwards. The bone pops with a sickening, wet crunch, forcing a loud, piercing shriek of agony from the man's throat.

Jungkook doesn't stop. He drives his knee directly into the guard's stomach, crushing the wind out of his lungs, followed by a heavy kick straight to his chest plate. The metal dents inward with a loud clang, and the guard goes sailing through the air, crashing hard onto the stone floor, coughing up strings of bright blood as he rolls onto his side, clutching his broken arm.

The rest of the barracks stands paralysed. No one moves. No one breathes. To strike a royal guard is treason, but when the attacker is the future King, and a man who can kill with his bare hands, the law belongs entirely to him.

Jungkook turns his gaze back to the first guard, who is desperately scrambling backwards on his hands and knees like a terrified, wounded animal, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.

Jungkook walks over to him, his heavy leather boots thudding rhythmically. He stands over the grovelling man, then reaches down, grabbing the guard by the throat and the collar of his iron breastplate. With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook rips the man completely off the ground, slamming his back against a massive stone pillar.

"Who do you think you are?" Jungkook hoarsely whispers, his face inches from the guard's bleeding, trembling features. He tightens his grip on the man's throat, cutting off his air until the guard's face begins to turn purple. "You wear my family's crest. You carry weapons funded by my treasury. You eat food provided by my citizens. And you use that power to strike an innocent, defenceless woman in the streets?"

"Your Highness- p-please-mercy…" the guard chokes out, tears of genuine, paralysing fright mixing with the dark blood pouring down his chin. "We didn't... we didn't know she was... we didn't know..."

"You didn't know what?" Jungkook roars, slamming him against the stone pillar a second time, cracking the mortar behind his head. "That she has a name? That she feels pain? That her life is worth infinitely more than your pathetic, miserable existences?"

He weakens his grip just enough to let the man gasp for air, only to drive a brutal left hook directly into the guard's ribs. The sound of fracturing bone echoes clearly in the silent room. The guard lets out a strangled sob, his head slumping forward.

Jungkook grabs him by his hair, forcing his head back up so he has to look into his eyes, eyes that are currently completely devoid of mercy, cold and dark as a winter grave.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the leather lash and show you what five strikes feel like when delivered by someone who actually knows how to use it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... Yes, Your Highness... Forgive us... Forgive us..." the guard weeps, his spirit completely broken, pressed flat against the cold stone.

Jungkook shoves the guard away in utter disgust, letting his limp, groaning body slide down the base of the pillar into a pathetic heap.

The prince stands up straight, slowly adjusting the cuffs of his dark royal jacket, his chest heaving with heavy, deliberate breaths as he reins in his wild adrenaline. The fury still burns hot in his veins, but his composure returns like a heavy curtain falling over a stage. He looks around the barracks at the rest of the silent soldiers who are still locked at attention, none of them daring to even blink.

"Clean this pathetic mess up," Jungkook barks coldly, casting one final, disgusted look at the two broken men on the floor. "And remember exactly whose crest you wear. If any of you forget your duty to protect our people, I will personally remind you."

He turns on his polished leather heel, his golden cape snapping behind him, and storms out of the barracks, his mind already racing out of the palace gates and straight back to your quiet, shadowed bedroom.

The bright, warm rays of the morning sun pierce through your thin linen curtains, casting long, golden bars across your bedroom.

You slowly blink your eyes open, your body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the white-hot, agonising fire that had consumed your back yesterday. You hold your breath, carefully shifting your weight to test the movement, but to your absolute surprise, the blinding agony has receded into a dull, thoroughly manageable ache. The throbbing is heavy, a reminder of the guards' cruelty, but it no longer cuts your breath short. The cooling herbal salve Jungkook applied worked absolute wonders overnight.

You slowly press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes immediately darting around the quiet room.

Jungkook.

He is gone. The space beside your bed feels entirely empty, the cool morning air still carrying the faintest, lingering hint of his crisp, rich scent.

A heavy wave of emotion hits you as you sit there in the morning silence, the blankets pooled around your waist. Your mind drifts back to the blurry memories of yesterday. You remember the sheer terror in Jungkook's eyes when your knees had buckled in the kitchen, the way his strong arms had snapped around you before you could even hit the floor. He had held you so tightly against his chest, as if you were something incredibly precious he couldn't bear to see broken.

The memory of his touch makes your skin tingle beneath your bandages. He is the Crown Prince of the realm, a man born to be served, and yet he spent his hours kneeling on your floor, on your bed, cleaning your wounds with trembling hands, and whispering soft, broken apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The sheer, intoxicating intimacy of him wrapping the linen around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid chest, plays on a loop in your head. It sends a strange, dizzying heat curling deep into your stomach, a mixture of profound gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.

You turn your head towards the nightstand. There sits a fresh glass of clear water, a small plate neatly stacked with dried fruits and crackers, and a folded piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the paper before unfolding it. Reading his messy, hurried handwriting, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.

The ridiculous boyishness of his threat instantly cuts through the lingering shadows of yesterday's trauma. Even when he is trying to be authoritative, he can’t help but be the same teasing menace who steals your cake batter. You smile, dutifully eating every single cracker and dried fruit on the plate, feeling the energy slowly returning to your limbs, before drinking the water down to the very last drop.

Exhaling a long, steady breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with meticulous care so the fabric doesn't rub harshly against the fresh dressings. You feel remarkably better; the deep, uninterrupted rest has done wonders for your body and mind.

Marching down the staircase, you are determined to open the bakery today. You refuse to let those guards steal your livelihood or intimidate you out of your own shop, and you certainly can't let your regular village customers down two days in a row.

The kitchen downstairs is dead quiet, smelling faintly of the chamomile tea Jungkook had brewed for you. You walk straight to the front door, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt, and pull the thick curtains back to let the brilliant morning light flood the room. Bracing yourself, you push the front door open and step onto the threshold to set up the outdoor display.

The moment your boots clear the frame, you freeze completely in your tracks.

Sitting proudly on the wooden bench right beside your shop entrance is an overflowing bouquet. It is massive, easily the size of your entire torso, completely taking over the small wooden bench. But as you take a slow, hesitant step closer, your brow furrows in sheer confusion.

The flowers aren't real.

You lean down, your breath catching completely in your throat as your eyes scan the arrangement. They are meticulously, beautifully handcrafted entirely out of soft, colourful yarn. Dozens upon dozens of intricately crocheted roses, delicate lilies, and bright daisies, amongst others, which are woven together with an unbelievable amount of patience, care, and precision. The bouquet bursts with vibrant, warm shades of pastel pink, sunny yellow, and rich cream, completely immune to the biting morning frost.

Tears instantly spring to your eyes, a sudden, heavy wave of emotion tightening in your chest until it's actually hard to breathe.

You are, unfortunately, severely allergic to real flowers; the pollen makes your eyes swell shut, and your lungs feel heavier within minutes. It is a small, trivial detail you had mentioned to Jungkook months ago, a passing, light-hearted remark made at two in the morning while you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies. You hadn't thought twice about it. You had assumed he forgot it the second the words left your mouth.

Yet here they are. Flowers that will never wither, flowers that can never trigger your allergies, flowers made with a level of dedication that a person can only give when they are entirely, irrevocably devoted to someone. Only a handful of people in the world know that secret about you, and your royal visitor remembered every single syllable.

Tucked precisely into the centre of the soft yarn roses is a small, heavy piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers trembling violently as you pull the note free from the stitches and unfold it.

I heard real flowers make you sneeze. These will never wither, and they will never hurt you. I'll be there tonight. Don't lock the back door. - J. p.s. leave out some extra cookies, please <3

You press the heavy paper firmly against your chest, right over your thundering heart, staring out into the bustling village square. A silent tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the light dust of flour on your skin, but a bright, genuine smile graces your lips.

Yesterday, you felt completely alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones while the world looked away in fear. But today, clutching this note, you feel safer, more cherished, and more protected than you have ever felt in your entire life.