Freya sat by the window.
Restless.
The earlier tension with Soren still lingered in her chest—
but now it had shifted.
Not even embarrassment anymore.
Something… unresolved.
Anything that wasn't him.
Freya needed air.
The room still felt too heavy.
Too full of thoughts she didn't want to sit with.
"Clara," she said, already moving toward the door,
"I'm going to the gardens."
Clara hesitated.
"My lady—perhaps we should—"
"I'm not running," Freya said quickly.
Then softer—
"I just need to breathe."
Clara studied her.
Then nodded.
"…I'll stay close."
The gardens were quiet.
Cool air brushed against Freya's skin as she stepped onto the path, tension slowly easing from her shoulders.
She wandered off the main path—
when she heard it.
A soft, distressed sound.
"…Hello?"
She turned.
And spotted it immediately.
A small cat, clinging to a branch high in the tree, letting out soft, panicked cries.
Freya's expression softened.
Clara followed her gaze and immediately tensed.
"My lady—no."
"It's stuck," Freya said, already stepping closer.
"And you are not climbing that tree."
Freya didn't respond.
Which was answer enough.
"Freya—"
She was already climbing.
"I'll just grab it and come down," she said.
"My lady, please—!"
Freya moved carefully, pulling herself up branch by branch.
"It's okay," she murmured to the cat.
"I've got you…"
The cat hissed weakly, pressing itself against the bark.
Freya reached—
"…There."
She gently gathered it into her arms.
"I've got you."
She exhaled.
"Okay… now we just—"
Her foot slipped.
The fall came fast.
"Ah—!"
She hit the ground hard, pain shooting through her ankle instantly.
Clara rushed forward.
"My lady!"
Freya winced, clutching the cat instinctively as she tried to sit up.
"I'm fine—"
The moment she moved—
pain flared sharply.
Her breath caught.
"…No. That's not fine."
Clara's face went pale.
"I'm getting His Majesty."
"No, wait—Clara—"
But she was already running.
Freya exhaled shakily.
"…Great."
The cat wriggled free and darted off.
Freya watched it go.
"…You're welcome."
"Don't move it."
Freya froze.
She turned—
and saw him.
Standing a short distance away.
For a brief moment—
she forgot the pain.
Ash brown hair, slightly tousled.
Clear blue eyes.
Sharp, observant.
And—
annoyingly—
very handsome.
Freya blinked, then frowned slightly.
"…You've been standing there long?"
"Long enough," he said.
He stepped closer.
"You shouldn't try to stand."
"I wasn't planning to."
He crouched beside her, already assessing her ankle.
"You fell badly."
"I noticed."
"Clearly not enough."
Freya gave him a look.
"…You're not very comforting."
"That's not my job."
Then—
"I'm Lucan Vale," he said calmly.
"The palace physician."
Freya blinked.
"…That explains a lot."
"Does it?"
"You're very… clinical."
"Accurate tends to be more useful."
Freya huffed softly.
"…I'm Freya."
He nodded once.
No reaction.
Just acceptance.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to her ankle.
Freya hesitated—
then nodded.
His hands were steady as he examined it.
Freya tensed at first—
then relaxed slightly.
"You've sprained it," he said.
"I gathered that."
"You won't be walking on it."
Freya sighed.
"Of course I won't."
A brief pause.
Then—
"You climbed a tree for a cat."
Freya glanced away slightly.
"It was stuck."
"That was predictable."
"So is you being irritating."
A flicker—
almost amusement—
touched his expression.
Barely.
"I'll take that as improvement," he said.
Freya narrowed her eyes.
"You're very confident."
"No," he said calmly.
"I just don't waste time pretending otherwise."
Silence settled between them.
But not uncomfortable.
"I assume someone is coming for you," he said.
Freya hesitated.
"…Yes."
She didn't say who.
And didn't offer more.
Lucan didn't press.
Just nodded once.
"Then we wait."
Freya frowned slightly.
"…That's it?"
"That's it."
He looked up at her briefly.
"Unless you'd prefer to stand and make it worse for yourself."
Freya paused.
"…No."
"Good."
And just like that—
he stayed where he was.
Like waiting was the most normal thing in the world.
And for some reason—
that made the moment feel even more uncertain.
Freya stayed where she was.
Still trying not to shift her weight.
Still aware of the dull, throbbing pain in her ankle.
Lucan remained crouched beside her, adjusting the position of her leg slightly so it rested more comfortably.
Then—
he paused.
Just for a moment.
His gaze shifted past the trees.
Toward the path leading into the gardens.
Something subtle changed in his expression.
Freya noticed.
"…What is it?"
Lucan didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he slowly straightened.
His attention fixed on the distance now.
Footsteps.
Too steady to be a servant.
Too deliberate for a guard.
Freya frowned slightly.
"…Lucan?"
He didn't look at her.
"That's not your escort," he said quietly.
Freya hesitated.
"…It is."
Lucan's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then—
"…That's the King."
Freya went still.
Her breath caught.
His gaze shifted—briefly—to her face.
Then back toward the approaching presence.
Recognition forming now.
And then—
it clicked.
Not from fear.
From logic.
A woman injured.
A royal presence personally approaching instead of delegating.
His eyes flicked back to her.
Just once.
"…You're not just a patient," he said quietly.
Freya didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
Lucan exhaled softly.
His expression didn't change dramatically.
But something in it sharpened.
Reassessed.
Rewritten.
Footsteps drew closer now.
Then—
Soren entered the clearing.
And for a brief moment—
he didn't speak.
His gaze moved over her carefully.
Her posture.
The way she guarded her injured ankle.
The faint tension she tried to hide.
Then his eyes lifted to hers.
"…You climbed a tree," he said.
Freya stiffened slightly.
"I had a reason."
"A cat," he said flatly.
Freya hesitated.
"…Yes."
Something flickered across his expression—concern first, then restraint.
Soren exhaled slowly.
Then his tone shifted—lighter now, but sharper at the edges.
"I leave you unattended for a short time and you decide to scale my gardens like they're a training ground."
Freya frowned.
"…That's not what happened."
"No?"
"The cat was stuck."
"And your solution," he continued, unbothered, "was to climb after it in a gown with no regard for what would happen when you came down."
Freya opened her mouth—
then stopped.
"…When you say it like that, it sounds worse."
"It was worse," he corrected mildly.
Then Soren's gaze narrowed slightly again, softer underneath the words.
"You weren't careful," he said.
Freya looked away a fraction.
"…I was careful enough."
"No," he said simply. "You weren't."
Then, quieter—
"I would prefer you be more careful next time."
Freya glanced back at him.
Something in that tone lingered—less teasing for a moment, more honest.
His lips curved faintly.
"And I will be deciding how you make up for this later," he added, almost casually.
Freya tensed immediately.
"…Soren."
"What?" he said innocently.
Then, with that same infuriating calm—
"If you feel the need to climb something again, I can give you something to climb."
Her face burned.
"THAT IS NOT WHAT I—"
He chuckled.
"Then perhaps," he continued smoothly, "instead of putting yourself at risk in my trees, you could practice climbing here."
His eyes dragged over her suggestively.
Freya's ears burned.
"Stop looking at me like that!"
Soren's smirk deepened.
"Like what?"
"LIKE THAT!"
He laughed again—warm and entirely too entertained.
Freya folded her arms stubbornly.
And, before she could process it—
he moved to her, hooked an arm under her knees and her back, and lifted her straight off the ground with a single, fluid motion.
Freya let out a startled gasp.
"S-Soren!"
He adjusted her effortlessly in his arms, holding her securely against his chest as he started walking.
"If you cannot be trusted to keep your feet on the ground," he said calmly, "I will simply carry you wherever you need to go."
Freya sputtered.
"PUT ME DOWN!"
"No," he replied flatly,
"your ankle is still healing."
Lucan didn't move.
Not immediately.
His gaze tracked Soren as he lifted Freya without hesitation, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Possessive in a way that didn't need explanation.
Something in Lucan's expression tightened—barely noticeable.
Then he stepped aside.
Soren finally looked at Lucan fully.
"…Lucan Vale," Soren said, as if confirming a file in his mind.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Soren held him in that silence for a beat too long.
Then—
"Good work."
Lucan inclined his head again.
"Thank you."
Freya shifted slightly in Soren's arms.
"…You two are very strange."
Soren's mouth curved faintly.
"Only one of us is injured in a tree."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," he cut in smoothly.
Lucan watched them for another moment.
A brief, assessing pause passed between them.
Then—
"Check on her ankle later," he said evenly.
Lucan inclined his head at once.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
Freya lifted her head slightly from Soren's shoulder.
"…I don't need to be checked on again."
Soren didn't look down at her.
"You climbed a tree," he said simply.
"I'm aware of what I did!"
"And you still have a sprain," he added, as if that settled the matter entirely.
Lucan's gaze flicked briefly to Freya.
Then back to Soren.
"I'll return this evening," he said calmly. "Once the swelling has settled further, I can adjust treatment if needed."
Freya sighed.
"…Wonderful. I have a schedule of being monitored now."
Soren's mouth curved faintly.
"You always have a schedule," he replied.
Freya groaned under her breath.
Lucan's thoughts lingered.
The king carried her like someone who expected her to be there.
And she argued like someone who knew she wouldn't be dropped.
That wasn't fear.
That was something else entirely.
Back in Soren's arms, Freya let out a frustrated breath.
"…You're enjoying this."
Soren hummed slightly.
"I'm evaluating your definition of 'enjoying.'"
Freya narrowed her eyes.
"I hate you."
"That's fine," he said calmly.
"You'll still stay still."
Then, softer—but still teasing:
"And you'll think twice before climbing anything taller than a chair again."
Freya groaned, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Soren smiled faintly as he continued walking.
Behind them, the garden path slowly emptied.
And Lucan Vale did not look back.
But something about the interaction had already settled into place in his mind.
Not just curiosity anymore.
Lucan remained where he stood long after they left.
Until Soren's footsteps faded down the garden path.
Only then did he move.
His gaze dropped to the grass where Freya had been sitting—slightly flattened, disturbed from her shifting weight.
Then to the faint trail they left behind.
Soren carrying her.
Lucan exhaled quietly.
"…Freya," he murmured under his breath.
But this time it wasn't discovery.
It was acknowledgment.
He already knew.
The realization had settled fully the moment Soren had stepped into the clearing.
A king does not personally retrieve a random injured noble girl from his gardens.
A king does not carry her himself unless—
Lucan's thoughts sharpened.
Unless she belongs close enough that no one else is permitted to make that decision.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The ease in Soren's touch.
The way she argued with him without fear.
The way he tolerated it without consequence.
Lucan's gaze lingered on the path they had taken.
"…Interesting," he said quietly.
Something far more clinical.
Assessment.
Because now it wasn't just a patient with a sprained ankle.
It was the king's wife.
And that changed everything.