Chapter 49: Can I Join You..?

I lie on the bed, a king in a sea of silk and memory 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-time work, then whole nights, devouring Omegaverse novels. Two hours of sleep was a luxury. I craved the escape, the intensity, the feeling those stories gave me. 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 mean?

A dinner?

A date?

A quiet evening, shared with someone 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 same. You don’t own his heart just because you want it.

I blink up at the nothingness. Maybe he likes someone 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 me, a small, hard stone of principle. I want to see the people I care about happy. Even if their happiness means… being separate from me.

The sigh that leaves me 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-time breeze.

Then my gaze catches.

Not on something dangerous. Not scary.

Something 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 same wind that chills me. 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 immediate, sharp. But I barely feel it. My focus is on that solitary figure. Did something 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 me, appearing out of the dark like a worried ghost in sleepwear.

For a moment, 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 comes out a little uneven, betrayed by the hurried steps that brought me 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… some 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 me—my disheveled hair, the thin, obviously inadequate pajamas clinging to me in the night air. His eyes widen with a concern that mirrors my own just moments 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 meets 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 acknowledgment 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 me for a long moment, 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 me, 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 agreement beside me.

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 movement eliminates the careful distance he’d maintained.

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

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