Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 62: Your Dream?

A soft smile plays on my lips as I watch him. Angel is still looking down, the delicate skin of his wrist warm and surprisingly fragile in my grasp. "Angel," I prompt gently, my thumb tracing a faint, soothing circle.

"Why so quiet? Give me a reply."

He doesn’t look up. The blush on his cheeks deepens to a brilliant, rose-tinted crimson. "I... I’m not lying. I..."

His voice is a flustered whisper, dissolving into the quiet of the hallway.

He’s so transparently nervous. The urge to tease him melts away into fondness.

I shouldn’t push him like this.

A soft, warm laugh escapes me. He finally glances up, his golden eyes wide. "I’m just kidding," I assure him, my smile softening. "You don’t need to explain."

I don’t let go of his wrist. Instead, I use my free hand to push my bedroom door open.

"Come on. Let’s go inside."

He follows me without a word, a silent, graceful shadow. I shrug off my stained coat, toss it aside, and sink onto the couch with a weary sigh. Angel hesitates near the doorway, his face still beautifully flushed.

I look at him and pat the space beside me. "Come. Sit."

His eyes do a quick, concerned scan of me—the ruined shirt, my exhaustion—before he nods and sits, leaving a careful, polite inch between us. I lean back, unbuttoning the top of my stiff shirt with a tired sigh.

I glance at him, then let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling.

"Angel..." I say, my voice quiet in the hushed room.

He looks at me, his expression soft and open.

I meet his eyes. "Did you want to say something?"

He’s silent for a moment, then shakes his head slightly. "No." He pauses, his voice softening further. "I just wanted to know... how was your day?"

I look at him, genuinely surprised.

I’m the one who’s always seeking him out in this vast, lonely mansion just to talk. This is the first time he’s waited for me. The first time he’s asked.

A small, warm spark ignites in my chest.

A soft, genuine smile touches my lips. I reach over and take his hand gently. "It was great." I say, the lie coming easily because in this moment, with his hand in mine, it feels true.

Before he can process the touch or the answer, I shift. I let my body slide down, turning to rest my head squarely in his lap. I make myself comfortable, settling against him with a contented sigh.

Angel goes rigid beneath me. "Zy... re..." he stammers, my name fracturing on his tongue.

I look up at him, deploying my most potent weapon: wide, sad, puppy-dog eyes.

"Angel," I murmur, letting my voice dip into a vulnerable plea. "Today... I’m so sad. And tired. And my head really hurts." I blink slowly, pouring every ounce of innocent need into my expression.

"Can you please pat my head?"

He stares down at me, utterly stunned. Then, slowly, as if moving through a dream, he nods.

His hand lifts, hovers for a second, then descends. His palm rests lightly on my hair, and he begins to pat—slow, gentle, rhythmic strokes. It’s instantly, profoundly calming.

I don’t close my eyes. I stare up at him, a soft, captivated smile on my lips, watching every micro-expression that flits across his face.

He feels the weight of my gaze and looks away, his cheeks flushing anew. "Don’t... don’t stare at me like that," he murmurs.

"Why not?" I ask, my voice a teasing whisper.

"It’s just..." He doesn’t finish, refusing to look at me.

"Fine," I sigh playfully, closing my eyes. "I won’t stare."

The moment my eyelids shut, I can feel his gaze return to me, a warm, focused attention sweeping over my features.

I wait a beat, then snap my eyes open.

He jerks his head away, caught.

A triumphant, teasing smile spreads across my face.

"Now you’re the one who’s staring."

"N-no, I’m not!" he protests, flustered, the patting on my head faltering.

I laugh, the sound light and genuine, bubbling up from a place of pure, playful happiness. The sadness of the night is still there, lurking at the edges, but here, in his lap, under his shy, gentle touch, it feels very, very far away.

My eyes stay closed, soaking in the quiet comfort of Angel’s gentle touch, the rhythmic patting on my head a soothing metronome in the dark sea of my thoughts. I feel calm here, safe in a way I rarely do.

I open my eyes, looking up at him from his lap.

"Angel?" My voice is soft, curious, like a child with a secret question.

"Hmm?" His hand doesn’t stop its motion.

I blink up at him, my expression all innocent curiosity.

"What do you want to do? In your future?"

His hand freezes mid-pat. The question hangs in the air, seeming to startle him, as if I’d asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn’t speak.

I blink innocently. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," he says quietly, but his gaze drifts away, fixing on some distant point beyond the room.

"Then tell me," I press gently, my voice still soft. "What’s your plan? Your dream?"

He looks back down at me, his golden eyes clouded with something that isn’t confusion, but a deep, weary resignation.

"I don’t know."

I don’t know.

The words land softly, but their meaning is heavy. A hollow truth.

Of course he doesn’t know. Since childhood, his world has been defined by obedience, by service, by surviving within the walls and rules set for him.

How could he be expected to dream? To plan a future that is truly his?

A small, sad, yet determined smile flickers on my lips. And then, a brilliant idea flashes in my mind, bright and perfect.

"Angel," I say, my voice gaining a spark of excitement. "What about modeling?"

He looks down at me, shock and confusion etching his beautiful features. "What?"

"I mean it," I insist, sitting up slightly on the couch to emphasize my point.

"Be the model for my new perfume brand. ’Best Feeling’ needs a face. Your face."

He hesitates, his gaze darting away again, a familiar shield of self-doubt rising.

"No. I can’t..."

I won’t let him retreat. I stand, then kneel in front of him, reaching out to cradle his face gently between my palms, guiding his beautiful, flustered gaze back to mine. His skin is warm beneath my hands.

"Angel, look at me." My voice is firm but tender. "You are beautiful. You are perfect for this."

He looks down, his warm skin heating even more under my touch, trapped beautifully between my hands. The protest dies on his lips.

Inside, my heart sings.

This is perfect.

This isn’t just about a perfume campaign. It’s a bridge. A stage.

Once he’s in the spotlight, seen by the world, he’ll finally see the world himself. Doors will open. Possibilities will bloom.

And more importantly... he’ll find him.

The male lead.

The one written in the stars to love and cherish him.

I’m not just giving him a career. I’m giving him back his story. And this time, I’ll make sure it ends without hurting him.