I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 125: A Distance He Couldn’t Keep

"Tone it down?" Cherion scoffed. "What does that even mean? Is there a settings menu for the Duke of the North I don’t know about? Like... Settings → Zarius → ’Kiss Intensity: Medium’?"

He dragged a hand down his face. "And excuse me, who approved a ’next time’? Because it definitely wasn’t me. I didn’t even finish processing the first incident yet."

The ceiling of the tent was, in Cherion’s opinion, a total jerk. It gave him absolutely nothing to focus on, so of course his brain chose that exact moment to replay this morning. Repeatedly. In high definition. It wasn’t a soft little memory. It kicked the door open and made itself at home. Specifically, the low, gravelly vibration of Zarius’s voice kept looping in his brain like a broken record.

But his traitorous body remembered. It remembered the sheer, suffocating heat of the man, the way the cold Northern air had seemed to vanish the moment they touched, and the audacity of that mouth. Cherion groaned, the sound muffled as he slammed his face into his pillow. He kicked his legs under the heavy furs, feeling like someone trusted with lives... who was currently losing to his own emotions.

"Distance," Cherion sighed into the pillow. "Physical, emotional, spiritual, just... all of it."

He sat up abruptly, his hair a silver mess. If he stayed here, breathing the same air as Zarius, his self-control was going to collapse. Completely. By morning, he’d be making very questionable decisions. No, the solution was space. Several tents’ worth of space. Preferably with a large, heavy object placed between him and the Duke.

Like a man possessed by the spirit of a very dignified, very panicked refugee, Cherion scrambled out of the bed. He didn’t pack a bag, that would look like he was moving out. Instead, he grabbed his pillow, clutching it to his chest like a life-raft in a storm. He moved with a sort of frantic, tip-toed shuffle, muttering to himself about "professional boundaries" and how this was definitely not healthy for his brain.

He was going to find Reiner. Reiner was safe. Reiner was a golden retriever in human form who spent his evenings talking about bowstrings and the quality of dried meat. Reiner had never kissed him. Reiner posed exactly zero psychological threat to Cherion’s sanity.

He reached the tent flap, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Just get out. Get into the cold. Reset the system. He threw the flap open with more force than intended, ready to dive into the night air.

He didn’t hit the air. He hit a wall.

A very solid, very warm, very fur-lined wall of muscle that smelled of frost, iron, and a scent that was uniquely, infuriatingly Zarius.

Cherion let out a strangled yelp as he walked straight into the Duke’s chest and bounced back like just ran into a very expensive, very muscular obstacle. He looked up, his neck craning back, until he met those slate-blue eyes. Zarius was standing there, a light dusting of snow on his shoulders, looking like he’d just finished a final round of the perimeter.

Zarius’s gaze dropped slowly. First to Cherion’s wide, panicked eyes. Then down to the pillow clutched to Cherion’s chest. Then back up. One of his eyebrows twitched up, subtle to anyone else, but in Northern language, that was basically a full-blown interrogation.

"Your Grace," Cherion blurted out, his voice an octave higher than usual. "You’re... back. Earlier than expected. Or perhaps I’m just early for... going somewhere else."

"With a pillow?" Zarius asked, his voice a low rumble that Cherion felt in his own toes.

"It’s... uh... support equipment," Cherion lied instantly, the words tumbling out before his brain could vet them. "Er, I mean, I was just going to Reiner’s’. I’ll sleep there."

Zarius didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stood there, blocking the exit like a sentient mountain range. "Sleep with Reiner?"

"Yes! I mean.. logically speaking, we’ve already fulfilled our... quota." Cherion took a breath, trying to steady his voice. He leaned into the one defense he had left. "After last night, which, for the record, involved significantly more than holding hands, the amount of healing energy transferred was... excessive. Honestly, it was basically an overdose. You should be stable for at least a week. Ten days, if you behave."

Cherion offered a weak, shaky smile. "So! No need for the transfer tonight. You’re at a hundred percent. We can both sleep on our own... separate... very distant quarters. It’s the most reasonable course of action."

Zarius didn’t immediately argue. That was the problem. He just stood there, watching Cherion with that weighing, steady gaze that made Cherion feel like he was being dissected under a microscope.

He took a step forward. It wasn’t a fast move, but it was absolute. Cherion instinctively stepped back. Zarius took another step. Cherion retreated again, his heart doing that frantic bird-kick against his ribs.

"If the healing is sufficient," Zarius said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming quieter and far more direct, "and if the ’medical necessity’ is satisfied... then why are you trying to sleep in another tent?"

"Well... I... Because...!" Cherion’s heels hit the edge of the bed. He’d run out of room.

Zarius stopped just inches away. He didn’t touch him, but the heat radiating from his body was like a physical weight. "Why go out of your way to sleep in another tent, Cherion? We can just sleep on the same bed as usual. Unless..."

Cherion let out a nervous, awkward little chuckle, the kind that made him want to punch himself. "Haha, well, you know me. Actually, it’s so late already. Goodnight, Your Grace! I’ll just..."

He tried to duck under Zarius’s arm, but he wasn’t fast enough.

In a blur of motion that Cherion’s reflexes couldn’t hope to track, Zarius’s hand shot out. He didn’t grab him roughly, but his grip on Cherion’s wrist was iron. Before Cherion could even gasp, the world tilted. He felt the soft, familiar crunch of the bed furs beneath him, and then a heavy, solid weight pinned him down.

Cherion froze. He was flat on his back, his breath hitching in his throat. Zarius was hovering over him, his arms braced on either side of Cherion’s head, his shadow completely swallowing the smaller man.

In a moment of pure, unadulterated panic, Cherion shoved the pillow up between them. It was a pathetic shield, a bag of feathers against a man who killed monsters for a living, but it was all he had. He turned his head sharply to the side, refusing to meet that intense, blue gaze, his eyes landing on a random stitch in the tent canvas.

"Your Grace," Cherion managed to squeak out, his brain scrambling for a comeback, a joke, anything, to break the crushing intimacy of the moment. "This...this is definitely a violation of the patient-provider agreement. I’m going to have to file a formal complaint. I’m serious. There will be paperwork."

But that didn’t land. It felt thin and hollow in the face of the Duke’s silence. Zarius didn’t move. He just stayed there, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm that Cherion could almost feel through the pillow.

The silence wasn’t neutral anymore. It was a question.

Zarius leaned down, his lips hovering just inches from the edge of the pillow, his breath hot against Cherion’s ear.

"Could it be," Zarius whispered, the words vibrating through Cherion’s very bones, "that you’re running away because of the kiss?"

Cherion’s eyes went wide, his grip on the pillow tightening until his knuckles went white. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could only listen to the sound of his own pulse, loud and frantic, as the world outside the tent vanished into the snow.