[BL] Alpha, You've Got the Wrong Mate!

Chapter 166 — Can I Have A Hug?

"A-And when I... I turned," Zayden’s voice trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Jack... He... took his own life with a dragger he always carried."

He blinked, trying to clear the blurry vision in his tear-streaked eyes. His head rested against Ren’s lap, and he realized he was sitting on the floor—how he had ended up here was a haze, a tangle of half-remembered words and confessions. His body felt heavy, unsteady, yet somehow safe.

"And... even now," he slurred slightly, voice shaky, "when I... see someone fall... my body... it betrays me."

He buried his face closer into Ren’s lap, a shudder escaping him. "I... I can’t... save anyone... these powers... I don’t deserve them," his jaw tightened.

Slowly, he looked up at the man who had been silently listening. When he saw Ren crying, his eyes widened. With slow, trembling fingers, he managed to wipe away some of the liquid running down his cheeks.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, surprised.

He hadn’t expected Ren to cry upon hearing his past. If he had known... maybe he wouldn’t have said anything.

"Because..." Ren simply said, wiping the remaining tears at the corners of his eyes, trying to pretend it hadn’t affected him at all.

Zayden let out a soft, faint chuckle.

"You’re not as heartless as you make yourself appear..." he muttered, almost to himself.

"My Lord, please head to bed." The servant straightened his posture, slightly moving his lap away.

"But you said it was day—" Zayden clung onto the man’s legs, resting his head on Ren’s lap once again. Then, he turned and blinked, puzzled. The sun had already set, to his surprise.

"You have been talking almost all day. Though..." Ren hesitated for a moment before asking softly, "Do you want to eat dinner?"

He tried to remain calm, even though his heart ached. He had never expected Zayden to share such a painful part of his past with him. Was it the alcohol speaking—or had it simply loosened the walls the General had built around his heart?

Then again... I was the one who asked about his friends...

His gaze softened. He could imagine what Jack must have felt—seeing his partner die before his very eyes. Ren knew that kind of pain. If it hadn’t been for his child, Eiran... perhaps he would have taken the same path.

Zayden’s throat felt dry, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Ren... can I—" he hesitated, eyes flickering down to his trembling hands, "—can I have a hug?"

He knew how selfish that sounded. He knew he was using his own pain as an excuse to ask for something he didn’t deserve. But the ache inside him wouldn’t quiet, and if Ren held him—just for a moment—maybe he wouldn’t fall apart again.

Ren’s expression softened. Without a word, he lowered himself onto both knees on the hard floor so that their eyes met. The movement was gentle, unhurried but not slow. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Zayden’s shoulders, pulling him close.

Zayden froze for a second, surprised by the warmth that pressed against him—the steady beat of Ren’s heart, the faint scent of his pheromones soothed him more than anything. He hadn’t expected him to do it so easily.

"You didn’t even question me," Zayden murmured against his shoulder, his voice muffled. "Why?"

Ren’s reply was quiet, but steady.

"Because I trust you. And... because we are friends. If a friend needs a hug, it’s okay to give them one." He said, tone robotic. It wasn’t something he understood well. Just something Ilyan often told him.

The word friend sank deep into Zayden’s chest, piercing.

Friends.

Was that all this was to him?

His arms tightened around Ren’s waist, holding him closer, almost possessively.

"Do you... hug all your friends like this?" he muttered, half-teasing, half aching. He couldn’t think properly under the influence of alcohol. Or else, he knew deep down that he would have never asked this question, fearing the reply.

Ren blinked, caught off guard by the tone in his voice. Before he could answer, Zayden pressed his forehead against his shoulder, hiding the faint tremor in his breath.

The servant stiffened slightly at the sudden pressure around his waist. He could feel Zayden’s fingers dig into the back of his shirt, as if afraid he might slip away if he let go. The embrace was no longer something simple—it felt desperate, almost pleading.

He hesitated, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before he placed it carefully on Zayden’s back. "You are trembling, My Lord," he murmured quietly.

Zayden didn’t answer. His breath brushed against Ren’s neck, uneven and warm. For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke.

The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the table. Outside, the cries of the wind were loud, slamming against the glass windows as if to shatter them if possible.

Ren’s gaze softened.

"My Lord..." he said, barely above a whisper. "Are you... feeling better?"

Zayden’s lips curved faintly—something between a smile and a wince. "I will survive. Are you worried?"

"I did not say that," he said softly, lowering his voice. "But," he paused, slowly pulling away from the hug. "I am worried."

Zayden drew in a shaky breath, his voice low as he held the man tighter in his embrace, not letting him go.

"Then why are you still holding me?" He asked as if he hadn’t noticed Ren trying to move away from him.

Ren’s eyes widened, surprised by the question.

"I... If you want me to."

Zayden gave a quiet laugh, but there was no humour in it.

"You really would do anything for a friend, huh?"

Ren didn’t reply. Would he do anything for a friend? The ones he made risked their lives to help him escape the Temple... so perhaps that became his definition of friendship.

Zayden’s grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against Ren’s shoulder, and his voice came out hoarse, almost childlike.

"Then... just for a little longer."

Ren said nothing. He simply held him, silently. He knew better than anyone that sometimes, the best way to comfort was through silence. Just having someone to hold onto was enough.

His lips curved faintly as his hand rose to Zayden’s head. He brushed his fingers through the man’s hair, gentle and slow—just as he used to for Eiran when the boy had nightmares, and for Ilyan... back when he was still alive. It was a small, instinctive gesture, born from a place of quiet care.

He didn’t know if it eased Zayden’s pain, but he hoped it did.

Because guilt...

Guilt was a wound that never healed completely—it only stopped bleeding when someone reminded you that you weren’t alone. He knew this feeling all too well.