Chapter 116: He Doesn’t Like—

My hands cradle his face like he’s made of glass. His skin is warm, damp with the tears I keep failing to stop.

“Angel,” I whisper again, my voice breaking on his name.

“Please. Tell me why you’re crying.”

He doesn’t speak. His lips press together, a thin, trembling line. His gaze drops, escaping mine, fleeing to somewhere I can’t follow.

The silence is unbearable.

I take a breath, slow and steady.

My hand slides from his face to his wrist, wrapping gently around the delicate bones. I pull him, not with force, but with a quiet, urgent tenderness.

His steps are light, nearly soundless on the marble. Mine are heavy with the weight of my own dawning guilt.

We enter the living room. The soft light, the familiar furniture—it’s meant to be comforting. It feels like a confessional.

I guide him to the couch and he sits, sinking into the cushions like a wounded bird folding its wings.

A servant appears, bowing. I don’t look at her. “Bring water,” I say. She nods and disappears.

I sit beside him. Not close enough. The space between us is a canyon I dug myself.

His head is bowed. His hands are clenched in the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white, fingers twisting the soft material into tortured peaks.

“Angel.” My voice is a quiet plea.

“Please look at me.”

Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine. More tears spill over, tracing silver rivers down his flushed cheeks. I reach out, my thumb brushing the wetness away, a futile, tender gesture.

“Please talk to me,” I murmur.

“I don’t like this silence.”

He looks at me. Really looks. His expression shifts, trembles, gathers itself. I see him summoning courage, pulling words up from some deep, wounded place.

Finally, he speaks.

“Zyren…”

I hold my breath. Wait.

“Are you… angry with me?”

My eyes fly wide. “What? No. Angel, no. Why would I be—”

His tears come faster now, fresh and unstoppable.

“Then why…” His voice fractures.

“Why are you ignoring me? It’s been two days. You didn’t come home. You didn’t answer my calls. You didn’t even read my messages.”

Each word is a small, sharp blade. Each one is aimed at me.

Two days. I left him alone, worrying, waiting, for two days. And I was so consumed with Deniz, with Moon, with my own tangled mess, that I didn’t even notice.

My thumb moves again, wiping his tears, but they won’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize. I was just… busy. With work, and the hospital, and—” I stop. Excuses. They’re all excuses.

“Please forgive me, Angel. Please.”

He stares at me.

Silent.

Searching.

Then, before I can prepare, he surges forward.

His arms lock around my neck, his body pressing into mine. The hug is sudden, desperate, the grip of someone who’s been holding themselves together for too long and finally, finally let go.

I flinch, just a fraction, startled by the force of his need. Then my own arms rise, circling his back, pulling him closer. My hand finds the space between his shoulder blades and presses there, a steady, soothing rhythm.

Neon, you fool.

This innocent Omega, this boy who has only ever shown you kindness, who waited for you in this empty mansion while you ran after everyone else—you left him alone.

You made him cry.

His voice is muffled against my shoulder, fragile and fierce.

“Please don’t do this again.”

Guilt is a physical ache, a stone lodged beneath my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I whisper into his hair.

“I won’t.”

“Promise?” The word is small, childlike.

“Yes. Promise.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Now please, stop crying. I’m here now.”

He doesn’t reply. He just tightens his hold, burrowing closer, as if afraid I’ll disappear again.

And I hold him, letting the silence stretch, letting my guilt settle into a vow.

I will never let him feel this abandoned again.

Never.

Angel and I stay like this for a while. His arms are locked around my neck, desperate and clinging, as if I’m the only anchor in a storm. I hold him just as tightly, my hand a steady, soothing weight between his shoulder blades.

The silence is no longer heavy with unshed tears—it’s soft now, tender, filled with the quiet rhythm of his breathing slowly steadying.

I’ve hurt him. But I’m here now.

I’m not letting go.

Then, a voice cuts through the warmth.

Cold.

Flat.

Surgical.

“Are you two done holding each other?”

I flinch as if electrocuted. Angel stiffens, then slowly, reluctantly, pulls back. His eyes are still red-rimmed, his cheeks still damp, but he’s stopped crying.

He glances toward the door, then back at me, confused and wary.

I turn my head.

Moon stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His blue gaze is fixed on us—on me, specifically. His face is a mask of perfect, glacial indifference.

But his eyes. His eyes are not indifferent.

I force my voice to stay even.

“When did you get here?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, his gaze flicks to Angel, then back to me. A muscle in his jaw tightens.

“Did I interrupt something?” His tone is silk over steel.

“Your… lovey-dovey embrace?”

I stare at him.

This pathetic, impossible Alpha.

I look away from him, turning my full attention back to Angel. My voice softens.

“Go freshen up. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Angel nods slowly. He rises from the couch, his movements careful, and walks toward the door. He doesn’t look at Moon. He doesn’t need to.

The tension in the room is a physical thing, pressing in from all sides.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I exhale slowly, then turn to face the storm.

“Can you,” I say, each word clipped, “for once in your life, try to think something positive? I already told you. He’s my best friend. My family. Nothing else.”

Moon is silent. His gaze doesn’t leave mine.

Then, slowly, he moves.

He steps closer. I instinctively lean back into the couch cushions, creating distance. He follows.

His hands plant themselves on either side of me, caging me against the soft fabric. His face is inches from mine.

“Hey—” I start, but the protest dies in my throat.

He leans in. More closer. His nose brushes the curve of my jaw, trailing down to the hollow of my throat. He inhales, slow and deliberate.

The warmth of his breath against my skin sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“Smelling like strawberries,” he murmurs, the words a low vibration against my pulse.

Then, just as suddenly, he straightens. His face snaps back to its mask of cool detachment, as if the last ten seconds never happened.

“Go wash up,” he says flatly.

“You smell like that Omega. I don’t like it.”

I stare at him, disbelief washing over me in waves.

…Dislike?

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that I smell like Angel. He doesn’t like that I was holding someone else.

He doesn’t like—

I don’t finish the thought. I don’t dare.

But my heart, traitor that it is, has already started racing.

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