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The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always manages to hang heavy in the midnight air of your kitchen. It's a comforting scent, one you've grown accustomed to and couldn't imagine your evenings without. It's warmth and familiarity creating a physical boundary between you and the cold, stone streets of the village beyond the walls which encompass your life.
You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand—which practically does nothing and just creates a larger smear. You're leaning over the heavy wooden workstation, kneading the first batch of dough for tomorrow's (well, today's) morning rush.
Deep in concentration, almost oblivious to the outside world, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. You register the sound, but you don't even have to look up to see who it is.
You already know.
"You are late," you say, keeping your voice flat, trying to project indifference whilst still pounding the dough, ignoring the familiar beat of warmth that thumps against your ribs and threatens to creep up your neck and cheeks.
"Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"
"Ah, a gentleman is never late, love. He arrives precisely when he means to," the man says, his voice a smooth purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the sales floor. "And I told you to stop calling me that; it's Jungkook for the thousandth time," he groans at your antics.
He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded oversized linen tunic and dark work trousers.
The entire kingdom knows the Prince; how could they not? Though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery with a mere lady.
He pushes his hood back to reveal strands of untuly dark hair and those ridiculously large doe eyes which glitter under the low candlelight. They're eyes you have come to learn you simply cannot stare into for too long without feeling heat creep up your neck.
You sigh, ignoring his gaze and his words as you turn to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, a new idea springing to you in the middle of the day, your fingers practically twitching now that you are finally able to try it. 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 possibly go. Your fingers manage to brush the base of the jar, but you cannot, for the life of you, get a proper grip around the damn thing. You're almost about to throw in the white flag before a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back.
All you feel is lean muscle and heat radiating through your apron. Then, an arm clad in faded linen, pulled up to his elbows, reaches up over your head, his 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, but you've always known that to be a losing battle. Just look at them.
"Need a hand?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.
Seriously? Does he have any respect for your personal space? Your sanity?
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. And he is absolutely smug about it. A devastating smirk plays on his lips, one you know all too well, as he hands you the cinnamon.
Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.
"I had it under control, 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 bunny," he teases before turning back.
And, almost like you've memorised this exact choreography before, 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 stupid height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. One 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, though your voice lacks any bite, swatting at his arm with your flour-dusted 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 ignores your berating, chewing happily as he closes his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm, so worth it. You outdid yourself, truly."
He leans his hip against your table, still entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the night air and something richer, clean and definitely expensive. He then shamelessly points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter.
"And what do we have here?" his eyes dance 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 slow deliberateness, pushing your buttons as hard as he can.
He locks eyes with you, a tilt to his lips. "Sweet. He pauses. "Just like the baker."
You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks before you can have a word with your brain. "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. "Well, 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 then takes the bag, his chest puffing out with too much confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."
But you notice how he grips the bag with entirely too much force, and before he realises, he causes 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!"
"I—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 as his eyes wander across your face. The way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the exact shade of warmth in your smile, almost committing them to memory.
"See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."
"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.
After too many minutes and too many failures, Jungkook eventually gets the hang of it. He's no longer at war with the bag and no longer creating more abstract messes; instead, the swirls are actually pretty good- not that you'd ever tell him that; his ego doesn't need it.
You deem his work sufficient enough to leave him to it as you leave to grab a heavy wooden spoon, and you begin to vigorously beat a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough.
You hate this part the most. After a long day of hours spent selling and running through the sales, then back in the kitchen to make new batches and note down special orders—the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the nonstop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough—makes your wrists scream in pain. And you can't help your movements slowing slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.
Lost in your own world, you don't notice Jungkook glancing at your figure as he pipes. It's as if it's second nature to him, tracking the sudden lag in your rhythm, the small sighs that escape you, the stiff movement of your arms.
His entire posture softens before he steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the spoon. His palm is calloused—no doubt from sword training—and incredibly warm, already easing the muscles in your hands
"Hey," he mumbles softly, shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell something burning."
"What? No, it's not. I just put it—"
"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.
Before you can protest further, he takes over. His muscular forearm flexes beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with ease. And it's only when you reach the hearth and find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he wanted you to rest your wrists.
You cross your arms as a smile threatens to tug at your lips. "Look at you. The 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'll have you know, I would make an excellent assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."
"You don't even have an apron on," you deadpan.
"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing and slides 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 bowl, and you promise that you are trying your hardest 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 and pours in the remainder.
And only 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, his mind working a million miles per hour before a competitive spark instantly ignites within 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 into his space, your hands tangled together on the thick 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 grin splits across his face.
Suddenly, he lets go of the spatula.
Since you were pulling so hard, you can't stop the little stumble backwards, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"
"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with a tone that clearly says: I actually win.
Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive bowl, still coated with a generous layer of thick batter on the bottom and sides. He lifts it, and your brows furrow.
What could he possibly have in mind?
As if reading your mind, he replies by sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and pop 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. "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, 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, and his eyes can't help but track the movement of your fingers. He doesn't blink; his eyes remain heavy as they move up to the curve of your jaw before finally resting on your eyes.
The kitchen goes silent. The only sounds breaking through are the low crackle of the hearth fire and the occasional gust of wind that rattles the windows.
His breath is warm against your skin, and you feel your own hitch. Your thumb lingers against his nose for a second too long.
A slow smile stretches across his lips. Jungkook reaches up and wraps his large hand around your wrist, thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.
"You know, you're very bossy for a baker," the low register of his voice causing your heart to 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 for you to think straight.
"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing its trace. "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. Your hands smooth down your apron as your eyes search for something, anything. Literally anything to break the moment so you can actually breathe.
They eventually settle on the small 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 for lord-knows-how long: 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, 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 crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the cream's smooth texture.
Jungkook freezes. His eyes widen to twice their size.
Without another 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 energy in the kitchen calms; it settles into a quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. There's no rush, no bustle, no noise. Just time for you to do what you love.
Jungkook, of course, is right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a hushed focus as he corrects his piping technique, tongue poking out slightly between his teeth as he finishes the cupcakes.
Baking has always been a type of sanctuary for you, long before Jungkook ever set foot in this kitchen.
In a world that moved too quickly for your liking, where words are scrutinised, and expectations hang heavy, this kitchen, this bakery, is the one place where life made sense.
There's no deceit in the weight of flour between your fingers, in the richness of the browned butter, in the sweetness of the cracked vanilla beans.
There are no complicated pretences in the balance of a scale.
If you offered the dough patience and care, it gave you something honest and whole in return.
But more importantly, it was the only space where you were entirely in control, where the quiet could hold you instead of suffocating you.
Or at least, it had been just yours.
Now, as you steal a few glances at him—Jungkook—completely stripped of polished titles, royal court decorum and the weight of his crown, all you see is his dark hair falling across his forehead and his forearms dusted in powdered sugar.
Your sanctum feels somehow even richer, in a way you never thought it could be.
Now, looking at him, you see something so tender about the way he treats your world with such care.
A prince, a damn prince, who commands an entire kingdom with a single glance, holding his breath in total silence just to ensure a swirl of vanilla buttercream formed a perfect rosette atop a tiny sponge.
He catches you staring, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he slowly straightens his posture.
"What?" Jungkook asks, gently breaking the stillness of the room. "Did I mess up the angle, or are you just admiring the craftsmanship?"
"A little bit of both," you admit softly. "Mostly just surprised you haven't managed to get frosting in your hair yet."
"Give it ten minutes," he chuckles, eyes softening, content in the quiet warmth you built together. "I'm nothing if not dedicated to the craft."
You glance back up at him, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes as you catch him.
Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. No, instead, he is resting his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the wooden counter, eyes fixed entirely on you.
His gaze is heavy, too heavy.
There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide you can hardly see the brown in his irises anymore.
"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 yet 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.
Oh, screw him. Screw him and his pretty little eyes.
You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands. The slight cracks in them from hours of work, the places where stray pieces of dough have stuck to them.
A heavy weight twists in your stomach. And you're met with a reminder that often haunts the back of your mind. A thought that has no regard for your feelings and emotions and simply invades you, settling into your bones like it pays the damn rent.
He is the Crown Prince.
You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast 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, instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and 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 evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with a kind of warmth.
He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves quietly, as if trying not to spook you. 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 something you haven't seen before. A certain kind of veracity.
"None of them," he pauses, "Are you."
His voice is a low 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 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 head."
Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long 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 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 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 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 just 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 light.
"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 kind of cold. The kind that seeps into your bones and settles there, completely unforgiving, disregarding all your protests for a little warmth.
The sun has barely crested the horizon when you venture out to set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh golden loaves of bread and warm rolls, ready for the day ahead.
Then you return inside to tend to the ovens. It's the same dance every morning, but one you never get tired of. You move around the kitchen with familiar, practised discipline, tending to new batches, arranging cakes and pastries, organising pre-made orders for collection, and sweeping up as you go.
As you glance out the large front glass window, you notice the village starting to wake. Other store owners are tending to their own lives, beating rugs and sweeping outside their own doors. Stall owners are setting up their carts, a low murmur of chatter between them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.
As you finish your brownie display, admiring it with the pride you carry every day for your work, you can't help but notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward the outdoor display. You squint your eyes, one of them looking awfully familiar.
Until it hits you.
It's the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. Your heart cracks a little at the sight of them: emaciated, ribs practically on display through the tattered rags they have to call clothes.
One of them, a little boy who cannot be older than six, reaches up and snatches a small bloomer loaf of bread from the bottom shelf.
Before he can make it three feet away, and before you can open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside to escape the harsh morning frost, a booming voice echoes through the square.
"Thieves! Drop it!"
Two royal guards, burly as they come, clad in gleaming heavy iron, march out from the shadows of the square. Even from inside, you can see their expression: bored, angry, and eager for a distraction.
And one was just handed to them on a silver platter.
The children shriek at the bellow, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, scuffing up grass and mud as they try to make a break for it.
But the guards are faster. One of them lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him off the ground.
The child wails. His cries and pleas echo off the cobblestones.
You finally make it outside, just as you see the second guard unclip a heavy leather lash from his belt, nothing but a sadistic grin plastered across his face.
"A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, child."
Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You simply throw yourself into the scene.
"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, praying your voice doesn't quiver.
The guard with the whip pauses, lowering the weapon slightly, eyes narrowing with a hint of amusement. "Step aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They must learn their actions have consequences."
"It's my bread!" You're breathless, 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."
You rack your brain. You know these guards. They're notorious. They are nothing short of brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crow grants them over the poor villagers.
You look down at the weeping child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts. You feel how he shakes against you, how his grip tightens with every second.
You can't just step away.
"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... then 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, 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 shriek tears right 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, leaving cuts where the stones dig in. 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 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 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 tremors wrack your entire body.
They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, so incredibly slowly, you push yourself up.
Your vision swims and you stagger back into the bakery, 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; each step brings a new wave of pain.
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, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets. You hope for the pain to let.
Hours pass. Eventually, the 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, angry, and entirely hopeless
But you drag yourself back downstairs anyway, into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today; you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, trying to plaster a sweet smile on your face, but you need a distraction.
So you begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.
Jeon Jungkook, at the current moment, is in his own world. Completely.
Everything else around him has faded into white noise.
He practically skips through the crowded, muddy alleyways and cobbled pathways of the lower village by the citadel, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark cloak pulled tight around his frame.
Thankfully, his royal duties had come to an abrupt end earlier today, which he will never admit how, allowing him much more time to spend with his favourite baker--not that he knows any other bakers, and not that anyone else comes even as close to you.
But come to think of it, it wasn't all that easy. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern palace walls just to avoid his mother pulling him aside to meet some noblewomen or his father ushering him into the study to discuss trade routes.
But he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in all the lands if it meant reaching your doorstep just a second earlier than usual.
For the only thing currently occupying his mind, and has been for the past twelve long hours, has been you.
It's almost comical how down bad he is. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly, down bad.
If you were to cut into his brain, about 80% of it would be occupied by your face... and the other 20% likely your beignets.
Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about military outposts and collapsing ship lanes, he doesn't see crowns, maps, gold, or power.
No, instead, he sees the way your eyes crinkle with laughter before your lips even move at his 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 cadence of your voice.
He wants to tease you and get under your skin until your pride flares just so he can witness that 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, no doubt practised, smiles. But none of them is anywhere near the level of the beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.
As he navigates the bustling market crowds, the little voice in his head takes a much heavier turn.
He can't avoid the truth that he is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being just a mysterious visitor who must 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 of the great hall of the palace, and dare anyone to say a word about it.
He wants you to be his, entirely and completely. But the voice also reminds him how independent you are. How hard you work for your bakery, and how you probably don't feel the same.
So, for now, he will hoard these secrets 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 than a visitor in the night, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life.
He turns the final corner into the main square, wincing slightly at the smell of metal, but he discards the odd smell.
He tries to, but cannot for the life of him, suppress the 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 entirely 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 small knife of unease tightens in the pit of his stomach.
It's mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour; dare even to think about such an idea. 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, indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.
Now even more on edge, his breath catches slightly in his throat, and he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley towards 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, 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 ragged breath 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?"
He sees you flinch at the sound of his voice, your body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash.
His brows furrow.
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 wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant warmth that usually greets him.
Jungkook's small smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a hesitant step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards.
"Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired. Don't tell me you missed me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?" He tries to inject an ounce of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame.
"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 the copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. But the exact moment your arms extend upwards, your breath catches violently in your throat.
A sharp whimper 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 instincts flare. The sight of you in any sort of discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, palm hovering just a millimetre above your shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, leaving no space for him to dissect anything.
You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You plaster a strained smile onto your pale lips, trying to project indifference, though your lower lip is trembling, betraying you entirely.
"I just... I was moving the tables around 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, 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 wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if fully expanding your lungs 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 wave of something he cannot describe threatens to choke him.
He hates seeing you like this, vulnerable and small, hates the fact that something has stolen your light.
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 catches a glimpse of a clumsily wrapped bandage around your torso as it peeks through.
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. His blood runs cold.
"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping. "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 crack of your voice. "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 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 leads to pure agony.
A choked groan tears straight from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your body. Your knees 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 eyes widening to twice their size.
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 everything back.
You snap. You bury your face into the 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..."
The tears fall uncontrollably, soaking his tunic as he holds you close.
Hearing you cry like this, hearing the tremor in your voice, breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook.
A wave of 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 that you'll never know.
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.
Your fingers twist and bury themselves 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 whisper. The cocky boy from last night is gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.
You nod, 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. And 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.
All he sees are the five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh that span across your back. They are swollen, with deep, bruising purple peeking out from the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out from where your movement has reopened some of them. The clumsy linen wrap you attempted is now completely soaked through with red.
Jungkook pauses. He can't think, he can't hear, he can't speak. All he sees is you and the broken skin.
His hand hovers over one of the marks, casting a shadow over it as if it will somehow make it disappear. It doesn't.
But eventually, he finds his tongue.
"Who did this to you?"
The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of any warmth, it makes you freeze instantly.
His tone is one you can't put a finger on, because honestly, you have never heard anything like it.
If you were to turn around right now, you would see the fire in his eyes, the glare that his features have shifted into. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth in his other hand.
"The--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."
Another silence fills the room, the kind of thickness to it that makes you feel like making a run for it just to escape everything and leave it all behind.
For a long moment he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple village girl like you should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers.
But instead, you feel the slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between the two of you.
"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 gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets, digging into them with relentless force.
But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with a firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs smooth circles gently at the bare skin.
"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 at each slash.
His movements are slow and careful, almost like he's scared. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way compared to the late-night meetings.
His touch lingers over the curves of your shoulders and down your back as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.
He's patient, incredibly so. Reading your movements with scrutiny, noticing every intake of breath and every slight twitch. He moves at your pace, allowing you space to breathe, to be in control.
Once he's satisfied, he reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of a thick green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks, voice laced with dread.
"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 get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts.
Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down.
The act is so intensely and overwhelmingly private, it settles deep into your bones.
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, thumbs back to 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 almost completely black, pupils blown wide, almost no brown left in them.
He doesn't look at you like an inconvenience, or weak, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.
"Lie down," he commands softly, 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 even attempt 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 tender.
"Thank you, Jungkook," you slur, 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."
And he does; he stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, occasionally massaging your scalp to soothe you even further.
His other hand remains firm on top of your own until you drift off completely and your breathing evens out.
The second it does, the shift in the air is almost comical if it weren't so intense.
All the soft edges of his frame evaporate.
He stands up from the edge of the mattress, expression hardening into ice.
The warmth that usually fills his eyes is completely gone, like it was never even there to begin with, 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 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 tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in:
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 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 steadily, 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 cloak and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in terror at the 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 stood 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 eastern lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, holding an edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up, reporting for duty.
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, measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes 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 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 man swallows hard, his throat bobbing. "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. "N-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 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 protectiveness.
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 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 before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.
The second guard gasps in 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 his wrist. 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 straight 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. He stands over the man, then reaches down, grabbing him by the throat and the collar. With a low groan, 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 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 cold.
"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the eastern lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery and any of the citizens... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the 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 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 as he reins in his 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 heel, his 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 warmth of the morning sun glides through the linen of your curtains, casting long dancing shadows across your bedroom.
You slowly blink your eyes open, body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the 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 and push 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 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 apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The 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 gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.
You turn your head towards the nightstand to find sitting there 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 breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.
The ridiculousness of his threat instantly cuts through the shadows of yesterday.
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 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 breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with 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 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, unlock 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 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 step closer, your brow furrows in confusion.
The flowers aren't real.
You lean down, your breath catching 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, 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, immune to the biting morning frost.
Tears instantly spring to your eyes, clouding your vision. You try to blink them away, try to keep them open so you can still see the bouquet.
Unfortunately, you must have pissed off Mother Nature in the womb for her to have granted you the severe allergy to flowers; most of their pollen makes your eyes shut tight, 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 whilst you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies (which he still denies blame for, despite him definitely distracting you for too long).
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 twitching 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 smile graces your lips.
Yesterday, you felt alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones whilst 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.
You find yourself glancing up at the morning sun, already tracking its slow path across the sky, a deep, restless feeling settling into your very bones. For the first time in your life, you find yourself utterly despising the daylight, wishing the hours would fly by in a breathless blur.
You can't bring yourself to care about the flour, the dough, or the baking today. All your heart can focus on is the ticking of the clock, desperately waiting for midnight to fall so you can hear that muffled chime, the click of the door, and fall back into the familiar step with your prince.