Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 53: Good Morning... Zyren ♡

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 mean to—" My words tumble out, my gaze dropping to the floor in a hot rush of embarrassment.

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 immediately 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 some 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 firmer 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 me 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 me, 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 come, quiet but clear. "Good morning... Zyren."

My smile brightens, becoming real. The sound of my name—just my name—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, meaning to check my temperature, but he stops mid-air, his fingers curling back. He remembers 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 moment, 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 me, the pink in his cheeks deepening. Then he flinches, as if a timer 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 argument. "Last night, you accepted me 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. Come 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 me lead him. His steps are silent behind me, 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 same chill, refreshing breeze. Angel stands beside me 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, meeting 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 memory 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 time... 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 meet mine. In them, I don’t see the polite servant, nor the flustered man from moments ago. I see a deep, ancient fondness, etched with lines of care and a profound, heartbreaking sadness.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.

Now I understand...