I push back so fast it’s a miracle I don’t trip again, scrambling to stand up straight. "I’m sorry, Angel! I didn’t an to—" My words tumble out, my gaze dropping to the floor in a hot rush of embarrassnt.
Angel sits up quickly, the duvet pooling around his waist. His eyes are wide, sleep and shock mingling into pure confusion. He must be wondering how he ended up here, in my bed. I risk a glance up, then imdiately look back down.
Neon, you idiot. Why did you have to step closer? Why did you touch him? If you’d just left him alone, you wouldn’t have fallen on top of him like so clumsy, overeager—
Angel stands up swiftly, the practiced motions of a servant overriding his disorientation. He bows, just a slight, formal dip of his head. "I apologize, Young Master. I fell asleep on your bed last night. It was inappropriate."
Young Master...?
The words are a small, cold splash of water. That word again.
"Angel," I say, my voice firr than I intend.
He looks up, his golden eyes still clouded with residual sleep and polite deference.
"Did you forget about last night?" I ask softly.
He blinks, confusion deepening.
"I asked you to call Zyren," I remind him, holding his gaze. "Not Young Master."
He looks down, a faint flush rising on his neck. "I’m sorry. I... forgot."
I take a step closer, closing the distance his bow had created. "Then say it now. Good morning, Zyren."
He looks up at , a flicker of nerves in his eyes. He hesitates, his lips parting slightly. I wait, a soft, encouraging smile on my face.
Finally, the words co, quiet but clear. "Good morning... Zyren."
My smile brightens, becoming real. The sound of my na—just my na—on his lips is a simple, profound pleasure. "That’s good," I murmur.
He seems to shake himself slightly, his servant’s instincts reasserting themselves in a different way. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks, genuine concern softening his features.
I nod. "Yes. Much better."
Almost reflexively, he raises a hand, aning to check my temperature, but he stops mid-air, his fingers curling back. He rembers his place. The hesitation is a tiny knife to my heart.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Can I... check your temperature?" he asks softly, the request tentative.
My smile softens. I reach out, take his hesitant hand, and guide his cool palm to rest fully against my cheek. "You don’t need to ask for permission, Angel. Not for this."
His cheeks turn a sweet, flustered pink. His palm presses gently against my skin, his touch careful, assessing. After a mont, he lets out a small, audible sigh of relief. "No fever. Thank goodness."
"Thank you," I say, my voice low. "For last night. And... I’m sorry I acted so weirdly."
He stares at , the pink in his cheeks deepening. Then he flinches, as if a tir just went off in his head. "I need to go," he says, taking a step back.
"I have morning duties. The garden paths need—"
Before he can finish or take another step toward the door, my hand darts out, catching his wrist.
His eyes widen again. "Wh— What are you doing?"
I hold his gaze, my grip firm but gentle. "You don’t need to do anything."
He tries to free his wrist, a faint, automatic resistance. "But it’s my duty—"
"Angel," I cut in, my voice calm but leaving no room for argunt. "Last night, you accepted as your family. Didn’t you?"
He blinks, the reminder breaking through his ingrained routine. Slowly, he nods.
I let my smile return, bright and sure. "Then you’re not a servant of this mansion anymore. You’re part of my family. Part of my life."
"But—"
"No ’buts’," I say smoothly, finally releasing his wrist only to let my fingers slide down to loosely intertwine with his. I turn my head, looking toward the balcony where the fresh, golden morning light is streaming in. "The only duty you have right now is to enjoy this. Co on."
I give his hand a gentle tug and start walking toward the balcony. For a second, he doesn’t move. Then, with a quiet, bewildered exhale, he follows, letting lead him. His steps are silent behind , his eyes cast down, not in submission, but in a deep, beautiful confusion as I pull him into the sunlight, out of the shadows of his old life.
Our hair stirs in the fresh morning air—mine a shock of silver, his a cascade of gold—tangled by the sa chill, refreshing breeze. Angel stands beside at the balcony railing, silent, his gaze distant. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy with unspoken things.
I glance at him. "What’s on your mind?"
He looks up, eting my eyes for a fleeting second. "Nothing," he murmurs, but it’s a transparent lie.
I smile softly, nudging him gently with my shoulder. "Last night... you were so worried. When you saw I had a fever."
He looks back down at the garden below, where dew still clings to the vibrant, blooming flowers. A soft, becoming pink tints his cheeks again. He doesn’t deny it.
I watch him, waiting. The silence stretches, filled only with the whisper of the wind and the distant chirping of morning birds. Why has he gone so quiet?
After a long pause, he speaks, his voice so soft it’s almost carried away by the breeze. His eyes remain fixed on the garden, as if seeing a mory painted among the petals.
"When you were a child," he begins, "one day... I found you in the garden. Lying on the grass. Unconscious."
My breath catches. I stare at his profile. A subtle shift moves across his face—a tightening around his eyes, a faint tremor in his lips.
"You were burning with fever," he continues, the words slow, weighed down by the recollection. "That day... I was so worried."
He falls silent again, lost in the past. I don’t dare to speak, to break the spell of this confession.
"The doctor said you caught a cold. You were in bed for a whole week." A small, sad, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. "After that ti... I never let you catch a cold again. I was always watching. Always making sure you were bundled up. That you didn’t stay out in the rain."
He finally turns his head, and his golden eyes et mine. In them, I don’t see the polite servant, nor the flustered man from monts ago. I see a deep, ancient fondness, etched with lines of care and a profound, heartbreaking sadness.
The realization hits like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
Now I understand...
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