Chapter 8
Jakob stamped his feet against the frozen ground, watching his breath cloud in the pre-dawn darkness. His father's old pea coat hung loose around his shoulders, the sleeves falling past his fingertips. He'd layered two sweaters underneath, but the cold still bit through.
The church bells struck quarter to five.
Jakob blew on his hands, cursing himself for agreeing to this.
He should have been halfway through milking by now, not waiting in the dark for a prince who'd probably changed his mind.
Who probably lay warm in his silk sheets, laughing at the farmer's son who actually believed—
A figure emerged from the shadows, and Jakob's heart skipped.
Harald approached in his field training uniform, complete with leather suspenders.
His hair was brushed and slicked back with pomade looking like he'd stepped out of a military catalog rather than sneaking out for farm work.
The sight was so absurd that for a moment, Jakob could only stare.
"You cannot be serious." He fought back a laugh that threatened to edge into something softer, more dangerous. "Those are what you chose for farm work?"
Harald's cheeks flushed pink in the dim light. "They're the only casual clothes I own."
"Casual?" Jakob circled him slowly, taking in the ridiculous sight. The clothes were new as fresh snow and pressed within an inch of their life. "Anskie will have those ruined before you can say good morning."
"I tried finding something else, but..." Harald's shoulders slumped, and something in Jakob's chest tightened at the defeat in his voice.
"The palace staff disposes of anything I have that's worn or stained or threadbare, no matter how I try to hide my favorites from them.
They say it's unseemly for a prince to wear damaged clothing. "
The admission knocked the teasing right out of Jakob. He pictured Harald searching through his wardrobe for something, anything that might work and finding nothing but uniforms, tailored suits and formal wear. All those clothes, and not a single thing that was actually his.
"You really don't own a single pair of worn trousers?"
"Not a one." Harald tugged at his sleeve, not meeting Jakob's eyes. "I know, it's ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous. It's..." Jakob swallowed hard, surprised by the surge of protectiveness that rose in his chest. "Well, it explains why you showed up looking ready for a tactical exercise instead of mucking out stalls.
Come on." He jerked his head toward the farmhouse.
"Let's get you into something that won't scandalize the cows. "
The cottage's wooden floor creaked under their feet as Jakob lit the oil lamp.
He watched Harald from the corner of his eye, tensed for any sign of judgment—a wrinkled nose, a dismissive glance, the kind of subtle disdain he'd seen from other wealthy students at Riddarhuset.
But Harald's eyes were wide with genuine curiosity as he took in the simple room.
The familiar scent of wood smoke and yesterday's stew wrapped around them, and Jakob found himself cataloging the space through Harald's eyes: the worn floorboards, the patched curtain that separated Rachel's sleeping area, the dented pot hanging by the banked fire.
All the little signs of their poverty that usually made him bristle with defensive pride.
"It's so warm in here." Harald's voice held something like wonder.
Jakob turned sharply, looking for mockery, but found only honest appreciation in Harald's face. The prince ran his fingers along the rough-hewn table edge, touching the wood like it was something precious.
"I can't remember the last time I was somewhere that felt so... lived in." There was a note of longing in his voice that made Jakob's chest tight. "The palace is always sterile. The maids remove any sign that actual people exist there before the evidence can settle."
"Well," Jakob said gruffly, moving toward the old trunk, "there's plenty of evidence that people live here. Especially since Rachel never remembers when it's her turn to wash the dishes."
The brass hinges groaned as he lifted the lid. The smell that wafted up—books and pipe tobacco—made his jaw clench reflexively. Behind him, he could hear Harald moving quietly, treating the small space with a reverence that made Jakob's throat tight.
Jakob's hands stilled on the folded clothes in the trunk. He looked over his shoulder to find Harald studying the hearth, running his fingers along the smooth wooden mantle where generations of hands had worn the grain down.
"Not much fashion here," Jakob said roughly, turning back to the trunk.
He dug through the folded wool and cotton, trying not to think about the man who'd worn them.
His fingers found what they needed—the patched trousers his father wore for haying, still sturdy despite their wear.
Beneath them lay a white flannel shirt, soft from countless washings.
At the bottom sat the gray cable-knit sweater Jakob had shoved there months ago, when Rachel had tried to get him to wear it.
He'd refused then, the way he always refused anything of his father's.
The old philosopher had spent more time with his books than his children; Jakob didn't need his hand-me-downs.
But now, looking at Harald standing there in his ridiculous clothes, treating Jakob's shabby home like it held secrets worth discovering...
his hands pulled out the sweater without hesitation.
It felt different, somehow, offering it to Harald.
Like transforming something weighted with old resentment into something new. Something his.
"These should work." Jakob stood and turned, clothes in hand.
He found Harald staring, not at the room or the clothes, but directly at him.
The prince's eyes snapped up to meet his, color flooding his face even in the lamp's dim light.
Jakob felt his own cheeks warm, suddenly aware that he was offering Harald something he wouldn't even wear himself—and what that might mean.
"The sweater's warm," Jakob said gruffly, looking down at the worn wool in his hands. "You'll need it, this early in the morning."
Harald took the clothes carefully, his fingers brushing against Jakob's. "Thank you," he said, and somehow Jakob knew he wasn't just talking about the clothes.
"Just... pick a corner to change," Jakob managed, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "I won't look."
Jakob turned his back, focusing on the worn floorboards, the knots in the wood, anything but the soft rustling of fabric behind him.
The starched uniform hit the floor with a whisper.
His hands clenched at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms, reminding him that despite how desperately he wanted to, he wouldn't turn around.
Movement caught his eye. The mirror behind the candle sconce—meant to reflect light into the room's shadows—betrayed him.
Harald's back came into view, pale skin catching the lamplight.
A scatter of freckles dusted his shoulders, like constellations mapped across snow.
Lean muscle shifted as he pulled the flannel shirt from its pile.
Jakob's mouth went dry. He should look away.
He needed to look away. But his eyes remained fixed on that reflection, drinking in each detail—the dip of Harald's spine, the way his hair fell forward as he bent to step into the work trousers, the vulnerable curve of his neck.
The sight of him here, in Jakob's home, surrounded by the simple things Jakob had grown up with...
His fingers ached to trace those freckles, to learn their pattern by touch.
He balled his hands into fists, pressing them against his thighs until his knuckles went white.
The urge to cross the room, to run his hands over that fair skin, to press his lips to the nape of Harald's neck—it burned through him like fever.
"These smell like hay," Harald's voice broke through Jakob's thoughts, rough and low in a way that did nothing to help Jakob's composure.
Jakob squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe. "Father's old work clothes." The words came out strangled. "From his last summer's haying."
More rustling, then the soft sound of wool sliding over skin. "You can turn around now."
Jakob turned, expecting relief. Instead, the sight of Harald in his father's old clothes knocked the air from his lungs.
The sweater hung loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal pale forearms. The worn fabric softened him, made him look touchable and approachable in a way his formal clothes never did.
But more than that—he looked like he belonged here, in Jakob's world, wearing Jakob's father's clothes, standing in the quiet morning light of Jakob's home.
Jakob grabbed the milk pail, harder than necessary. "Come on." His voice came out rough. "The cows won't wait."
The pre-dawn air hit them like a slap, but it did nothing to cool the heat burning under Jakob's skin.
Harald followed close behind him across the frozen yard, his borrowed boots crunching against the frost-covered ground.
The sound was too loud in the quiet morning, like everything else about Harald's presence here—too real, too close, too much.
"Watch your step," Jakob warned, more gruffly than he meant to. "Ground's slippery this time of morning."
As if proving his point, Harald's foot slipped. His hand shot out, grabbing Jakob's shoulder for balance. The touch burned through layers of wool, and Jakob froze, hyper aware of Harald's fingers curled into his coat.
"Sorry," Harald murmured, but he didn't move his hand immediately. "Not used to real ground. Palace paths are always perfectly maintained."
Something about the way he said it—like he was admitting a fault rather than pointing out a privilege—made Jakob's chest tight. He reached back without thinking, steadying Harald with a hand on his arm. The wool of his father's sweater was soft under his palm.