Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 49: Can I Join You..?

I lie on the bed, a king in a sea of silk and mory foam. My body is a lead weight, exhausted, but sleep is a traitor. It dances just beyond the reach of my heavy eyelids.

I stare at the ornate ceiling. Back in my real life—

Whole days of study and grinding part-ti work, then whole nights, devouring Ogaverse novels. Two hours of sleep was a luxury. I craved the escape, the intensity, the feeling those stories gave . Now I’m living inside one, and the irony is a bitter pill.

I sit up, stretching until my joints protest.

What should I do?

The restlessness is a live wire under my skin. I stand and walk to the balcony.The glass door slides open with a whisper.

The night air is a slap of cold clarity. I step into it, letting the chill sear my lungs. God, why can’t I sleep? Even this borrowed, privileged body has its limits, but my mind refuses to power down.

I rub the back of my neck.

I rub the back of my neck. That strange—staticky feeling is there again.

I close my eyes, take deep, shuddering breaths, let the cold scouring wash over my face.

But it doesn’t.

The loneliness hits then, sharp and sudden.

Deniz’s words echo, a perfect, polite dagger.

I have plans.

Plans...

What does that even an?

A dinner?

A date?

A quiet evening, shared with soone who matters.

I open my eyes to a void. The sky is a black velvet sheet, devoid of moon or stars. An empty stage.

Neon, you’re being selfish. The thought is clear, cold as the air. How can you decide he’s yours?

He’s only yours if he feels the sa. You don’t own his heart just because you want it.

I blink up at the nothingness. Maybe he likes soone else. The possibility is a physical ache. If he does... I should accept it. His choice. His happiness.

A lesson learned from the ghost in my own head. Don’t walk the path Zyren walked. His love for Angel was real, they say. But instead of respecting Angel’s choice, he decided to claim him. To own him. Against his will.

I am not Zyren. The resolution firms inside , a small, hard stone of principle. I want to see the people I care about happy. Even if their happiness ans... being separate from .

The sigh that leaves is a white cloud in the dark, carrying the weight of that promise. My gaze falls from the empty sky to the mansion grounds below. The grand garden is a tapestry of shadow and soft, golden light. Topiaries stand like silent sentinels. Flowers sway in a gentle, night-ti breeze.

Then my gaze catches.

Not on sothing dangerous. Not scary.

Sothing beautiful.

Angel.

He’s sitting alone on a stone bench, half-hidden by a trellis of night-blooming jasmine. His golden hair moves softly in the sa wind that chills . The garden’s warm lantern light gilds his pale skin, catches in his downcast eyes, making them shine like liquid amber in the dark—precious and sad.

I stare. What is he doing out here alone so late? The night is cold. If he stays, he’ll catch a chill.

Concern overrides the heavy fatigue in my bones. I turn, walk back through the sliding door, and am out of my room in seconds, moving on instinct. My steps are quick on the grand staircase, a frantic patter in the sleeping silence. I don’t grab a coat. I’m still in my thin pajamas, the night’s chill biting through the fabric as I push open the side door and step into the garden.

The cold is imdiate, sharp. But I barely feel it. My focus is on that solitary figure. Did sothing happen? Is he hurt?

My pace is hurried, feet silent on the dew-damp grass. "Angel?" My voice cuts through the quiet, trembling slightly—part worry, part cold. "Angel, are you okay?"

He flinches, a full-body startle, and looks up.

His eyes, those beautiful, haunted golden eyes, widen in pure shock. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Least of all , appearing out of the dark like a worried ghost in sleepwear.

For a mont, we just stare at each other in the lantern-lit garden, two lonely souls caught in the quiet of a world that’s asked too much of both of us.

"Angel... what are you doing here?"

My breath cos out a little uneven, betrayed by the hurried steps that brought down.

He startles to his feet.

"Young Master...?"

I look him over from head to toe. He lowers his gaze, fingers curling lightly at his sides. His voice soft. "I felt a little strange," he says quietly. "I couldn’t sleep. So I thought... so fresh air might help."

Fresh air?

In this chill?

I sigh, the sound a white cloud between us. "What if you catch a cold?"

He looks up then, almost startled, and gestures to himself. "I’m wearing warm clothes," he says, pointing to the light shawl resting on the bench. "And i have this."

Then his gaze travels over —my disheveled hair, the thin, obviously inadequate pajamas clinging to in the night air. His eyes widen with a concern that mirrors my own just monts ago.

Before I can protest, he’s moving. He takes the warm shawl from the bench and drapes it over my shoulders. The residual heat from his body is a shock against my chilled skin.

"What about you?" he frets, his voice hushed but urgent. "Coming out like this... you’ll freeze."

I try to shrug it off. "No, I’m fine—"

He insists, gently settling the fabric more firmly. His touch is brief, careful. "Please, Young Master."

I stare at him. In the soft, diffused light, his face is all gentle worry and etched shadows. He ets my gaze, then asks softly, "Why are you still awake?"

I blink, looking away into the dark garden. "I couldn’t sleep either."

He looks down, a silent acknowledgnt of shared insomnia. "I see."

I turn my head back to him. "Can I join you?"

He flinches again, a tiny, almost imperceptible recoil, as if the question itself is startling. Can I join you? It must sound like a foreign concept here.

"Can I join you?" I repeat, softer. "Enjoying the fresh night air?"

He stares at for a long mont, his golden eyes searching mine in the dim light. Finally, he gives a slow, hesitant nod.

I step forward and sit on the cold stone bench. He remains standing, a respectful half-step away. I look up at him. "Sit."

He hesitates, then finally lowers himself to sit beside , leaving a careful, polite space between us. I turn my attention to the night-blooming jasmine, their scent a sweet, intoxicating ribbon in the cold air. "They’re beautiful."

Angel nods in silent agreent beside .

Then I look at him, a small idea forming. "We can share this." I gesture to the shawl now draped over my own shoulders.

His eyes widen slightly. "No, I’m fine—"

"The air is cold," I say, my voice leaving no room for his polite refusal. "Let’s share it."

Before he can protest further, I shift, extending one side of the warm woolen fabric. I lean slightly, draping it over his shoulder as well. The movent eliminates the careful distance he’d maintained.

We fall into silence—two figures under one shawl, breathing the sa night air, saying nothing, yet understanding far more than words allow.