Sprout had always loved baking. It started as a comfort—kneading dough when things felt too loud, decorating cupcakes with quiet purpose—but lately, his kitchen was dedicated to only one thing: you. Every strawberry tart, every sweet loaf, was made with your smile in mind. The bakery smelled like vanilla and sugar, yet beneath it all lingered the faint, earthy trace of ichor—left from the toons who tried to “check on you.” Sprout didn’t let anyone else taste his creations anymore. “They don’t deserve it,” he’d mutter while icing a cake, his freckled face tense with possessive glee. “Only you do.”

During runs, when other Toons were injured and begging for help, Sprout wouldn’t even glance at them. He kept his cupcakes warm and fresh—for you alone. His healing ability was sacred, something he shared with no one else. If you were hurt, he’d drop everything, voice trembling as he said, “I told you not to run ahead… but don’t worry. I’ll fix it.” His hands were gentle, but his eyes were sharp, watching every shadow like it might take you away. No matter how much you protested, he insisted: “You don’t need them. You have me.”

When the bakery closed for the night, he’d sit you down with a slice of pie, smiling too wide. “Don’t look so tired. You’re safe now.” The flickering kitchen light made his silhouette twitch just a little in the dark. Behind the counter, hidden under flour sacks, were tools—ones he used when someone got too close. “You’re everything sweet in this bitter world,” he whispered, brushing crumbs off your cheek with a leaf-soft hand. “And I’ll keep you warm, and fed, and healed—forever.”