Chapter 50: Be My— Family

Angel stares at the night-blooming jasmines, his gaze distant, untouchable. My eyes trace the lines of his profile, pale and perfect in the dim light. Why is he always like this? So silent. So lost in thoughts he’ll never share. A beautiful bird, but one who has forgotten the very concept of sky beyond the gilded bars of his cage.

I can’t bear the quiet. It feels heavy, like a wall between us.

“Angel.”

He turns, those deep golden eyes focusing on me. “Yes, Young Master?”

“What are you thinking about?”

He stares, surprised by the directness of the question. I wait, patient, letting the night air fill the space his answer should occupy.

Finally, he speaks, his voice soft, hesitant. “Nothing. I’m just…” He stops. It’s the halt of someone who has run out of words, or perhaps never learned how to shape the ones inside him into sound.

I lean forward, breaking the tension by plucking a single, star-like jasmine bloom. I bring it to my nose, inhaling its sweet, nighttime scent, not looking at him. “If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. “I just… wanted a reason to talk to you.”

I shift my gaze slowly, meeting his eyes. The jasmine rests in my fingers between us. “I don’t like this silence between us.”

He stares back, unblinking, a world of unspoken things swimming in his eyes.

Gently, I reach out and tuck the small white flower behind his ear, into the gold of his hair. “There,” I murmur. “Now it looks even more beautiful.”

A soft, flustered blush immediately blooms across his cheeks. He looks down, suddenly nervous, vulnerable.

“Do you want to hear a story?” I ask.

He glances up, then gives a small, silent nod.

I offer a faint smile and lean back against the cold stone bench, my eyes lifting to the vast, empty darkness above. “Once, there was a little boy,” I begin, my voice taking on a distant, storyteller’s cadence. “He loved his parents very much. They were a happy family. But then, one day, his mother told him she was going out to buy him a special cake. She told him to wait for her in the corner of the house. The boy was obedient. He waited.”

The night seems to grow stiller, listening.

“But she never came back. The boy waited for her every single day after that. Maybe she would come tomorrow. Maybe the next day. But she didn’t. And soon… his father left him, too.”

I let the words hang in the cool air.

“He was left all alone. Without warmth. Without love. Without a family.”

I can feel Angel’s gaze on me, a tangible weight. He doesn’t speak. He just watches, listens, absorbs.

Finally, his voice comes, quiet as the rustle of leaves. “Why… why did his parents leave him?”

I smile, but it’s a sad, fragile thing. “The boy always wondered why. But he never found out.”

Angel looks down at his own hands, folded in his lap. “I wish… I wish one day that boy finds love. And warmth.”

I look at him then, really look at him. “Angel,” I say softly. “Don’t you think that boy’s story… and mine… are the same?”

His golden eyes lift, meeting mine with a quiet intensity.

“The only difference,” I continue, holding his gaze, “is that I know why my family left me. And he never knew why his did.”

Angel looks at me, silent, his expression unreadable.

“But I’m the lucky one,” I add, my voice dropping to a near-whisper.

His eyes flicker with curiosity. “How?”

Slowly, carefully, I reach out and take his hand. His eyes widen slightly at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away. His skin is cool against my own unnerving warmth.

“Because,” I say, my thumb brushing gently over his knuckles, “when my family left me alone… you were there. You were the one who gave me warmth—family, love. You took care of me… like real family does.”

His gaze drops to our joined hands, then slowly rises back to my face. The confusion in his eyes is slowly melting into something softer, something awed and terribly sad.

I smile, soft and true.

“Please,” I whisper—one word carrying the weight of every silence.

“Be my family.”

Our eyes lock. The world narrows to this bench, this shared shawl, this impossible question hanging between us in the scented dark.

Angel stays silent for a long, breathless moment. Then, finally, he gives a single, slow nod. “Yes, Young Master.”

A genuine, happy smile breaks across my face, bright enough to rival the absent stars. “Then stop calling me ’Young Master.’ Call me— Zyren.”

He hesitates, the old habit fighting the new promise. “But…”

“Please,” I urge gently. “I don’t like that word. Not from you.”

He takes a quiet breath, then nods again. “Yes, Young…” He catches himself. A flicker of something brave passes over his features. “…Zyren.”

The sound of my name on his lips, free of title, free of servitude, is the sweetest thing I’ve heard in this world or the last.

I smile, squeezing his hand gently. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s perfect.”

I’m still holding Angel’s hand. My eyes are on the jasmine, but my mind is nowhere near it. A soft, almost disbelieving smile plays on my lips. He said yes. He accepted me. Not as a master, but as family. The word feels fragile and monumental in my chest.

I can feel Angel’s gaze on me, a steady, thoughtful pressure. When I turn my head to meet it, he quickly looks away, as if caught in a secret. I can’t help but smile.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice gentle.

He hesitates, then looks back. His golden eyes are wide, reflecting the soft lantern light and something else—concern, maybe. “Your face…” he murmurs.

I blink, confused. “My face?” I touch my cheek. My skin feels hot, almost feverish.

“It’s very red,” he says, his voice low with worry.

Then—

A sudden breeze sweeps through the garden. The jasmine branches tremble, petals breaking free and drifting down—onto the grass, onto us.

Angel doesn’t seem to notice the storm of petals. His eyes are still fixed on me, his worry deepening. “There’s a petal,” he says softly, “on your cheek.”

Before I can react, he leans closer.

The world seems to slow, the sound of the wind fading to a distant hum. His movement is unhurried, his focus absolute. His fingers, cool and impossibly gentle, brush against my burning skin as he carefully plucks the single, clinging petal from my cheek.

Our eyes lock.

In that suspended moment, his gaze holds mine—golden, deep, filled with a tenderness.

The whole world is gone. There is only Angel, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that something is very, very wrong with me.

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