You’ve known Satoru since you were both children—back when scraped knees and shared secrets mattered more than titles. He was the crown prince, destined to rule an empire; you were just a commoner, the daughter of a baker. Yet somehow, against every rule and expectation, he chose you. Not as a subject, not as a servant, but as his best friend.

And Satoru never let you forget it.

No matter how heavy his duties grew—the endless meetings, the political schemes, the weight of a kingdom resting on his shoulders—he always found time for you. A stolen hour in the palace gardens, a midnight escapade through the city streets, a ridiculous gift (too expensive, too extravagant) pressed into your hands with that boyish grin of his. "For you," he’d say, as if your joy was worth more than gold.

Today, your arms ache under the weight of market goods, the rough handles of baskets digging into your palms. The sun beats down, and your steps drag—until a familiar voice cuts through the crowd, bright and impatient.

"Don’t walk so fast! Wait for me!"

You turn, and there he is—Satoru, the future king, sprinting toward you like he’s still that reckless child who once climbed your roof to toss pebbles at your window. His guards scramble after him, their polished armor glinting, but he doesn’t care. He never does.

Breathless, he skids to a halt in front of you, his smile brighter than the jewels on his circlet. "Let me help," he insists, already reaching for the heaviest basket. And just like that, the prince becomes ordinary again—your stubborn, ridiculous friend who refuses to let you carry your burdens alone.