My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 158: His Guardian Angel

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3rd person pov

Adrien never left Noah’s side that night, staying close and attentive. After gently laying him on the bed, he moved with a sense of urgency, as if any wrong move could completely break him. He knelt down to take off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door, then quietly called for the maids, instructing them firmly yet softly to help change his clothes. He remained near during the whole process, turning away only when necessary, but never exiting the room, like a vigilant guard refusing to leave his post.

He made sure to pull fresh sheets over him, cool and clean against his skin, tucking the blanket around his shoulders in the nurturing way his mother used to do when he was sick. He got a glass of water and set it on the bedside table, adding painkillers just in case, and adjusted the curtains for a dim, calm atmosphere. At one point, he gently wiped the dried tears off his cheeks with a soft towel, feeling anger and guilt boiling beneath the surface as he did.

Sleep barely came for him. Instead, he sat in the chair next to his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, watching his chest rise and fall like it was the only thing keeping him together. Every little creak in the house made him jump, and every shadow in the hallway put him on high alert, an irrational fear gnawing at him that Patrick—or any of them—might reappear. He kept promising himself that nothing like this would ever happen again, not while he was around, not if he could help it.

As dawn approached and the house lay quiet, Adrien finally got up and headed downstairs. Mr. Carlby was still awake, as usual...as if he hardly slept at night, still sent about the mansion, moving stealthily through the kitchen making the tea flavor he adored. Adrien stopped him with just one sentence, his tone calm but with an edge.

"Hey," he said, locking eyes with the butler, "are you still in touch with that old police officer friend of yours?"

Mr. Carlby studied him for a long moment, understanding what was unsaid, then nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," he replied. "I am."

"Good," Adrien said, turning away before more questions could come. "I’m going to need that connection."

The next morning, sunlight filtered into Noah’s room, soft and golden, touching the pale blue walls and familiar furniture. He woke slowly, feeling heavy, his head pounding as he pushed himself up. Confusion flickered through him at first—why was he here, in his room, in his bed—until recognition hit him like a wave.

Memories surged back, sharp and unyielding, and his breath caught as he curled up, clutching the blanket to his chest. Tears spilled out before he could stop them, starting off quiet but soon shaking as the reality of the previous night sank in. The workshop, the fear, the hopelessness—and then, just at the last moment, Adrien and Ethan bursting in to pull him back from the brink when he had almost given up.

He buried his face in the pillow and cried, overwhelmed not just by what had nearly happened, but by how close he had come to feeling utterly alone. As he wept into the sheets, the door to his room opened quietly; he barely noticed the sound at first. It wasn’t until the mattress shifted beside him that he felt it—a familiar presence so close it made his breath hitch. Adrien paused when he saw him like that, curled up and shaking, then moved without a second thought. He climbed onto the bed and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest, as if afraid he might slip away if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.

He didn’t say anything. Not a single word. And somehow, that made it both worse and better all at once.

The moment his arms closed around him, all the things he’d been holding back broke free. He cried harder than he thought possible, his body trembling under the weight of it all. His face pressed into his shirt, his fists clutching the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded, and he just stayed there, breathing evenly, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back. Occasionally, he felt his grip tighten, like he was silently assuring him that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Time slipped away. Minutes turned into hours, and the sun rose outside his window without him noticing. He cried until his throat hurt and his chest felt heavy, until his tears soaked through his shirt and his eyes throbbed. Adrien never tried to rush him or make him stop, never told him it would be alright when neither of them knew if that was true. He just held him, allowing him to fall apart in his arms as if that was exactly what he needed to do.

Eventually, his sobs quieted but didn’t fully stop. He cried not just because of the previous night’s near tragedy, but because the truth he’d been trying to bury clawed its way back. This wasn’t the first time. The fear felt familiar, the hopelessness all too real, and realizing that hurt almost as much as the memories themselves.

What had he done so wrong in this life—or maybe even a past one—to deserve this kind of cruelty again?

That thought made his chest tighten, and a broken sound escaped him as he pressed his face deeper into Adrien’s shoulder. His arms tightened around him once more, and he felt his chin rest lightly on his head, his breath uneven, as if he was battling something inside himself too.

"I’m here," he finally whispered, his voice low and rough, barely louder than a breath. "I’ve got you. I swear."

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All he could do was cling to him and cry, letting the pain pour out of him, hoping that if he let it all out now, maybe—just maybe—it would hurt a little less someday.