“Mom… Mom, don’t leave me… Please, don’t leave me... Everyone’s abandoned me. Now even you... you don’t want me. Everyone hates me…”

  Tears slipped down his face, soaking into the pillow beneath him. The wetness spread out in a silent bloom, like a flower wilting in the night.

  Clarissa stared at Atticus, momentarily at a loss. Her heart clenched as she watched him, helpless in his sleep.

  She hesitated for a moment but eventually reached out, gently patting his chest. "It’s okay. I won’t leave you… and I don’t hate you."

  She wasn’t sure if her words had any real effect, but slowly, Atticus’ tense expression eased. His mumbling quieted, his breathing steadied.

  Clarissa let out a breath of relief—only to realize that his fingers were still locked tightly around her wrist.

  She tried to pry them off, but his grip was firm. Even in sleep, he clung to her like a drowning man grasping for the last straw.

  With a sigh, Clarissa gave up and stopped resisting. Instead, she reached out to check the towel on his forehead. It was still cool. That was a good sign.

  If this continues, his fever should break by morning.

  Dragging a chair closer, she sat down beside the bed, finally getting the chance to study him up close.

  The boy was beautiful.

  Clarissa had always been confident in her own looks, but she had to admit—Atticus was on a whole different level.

  His eyes, now closed in sleep, had thick, long lashes that trembled ever so slightly—like butterfly wings poised to take flight. The soft light cast delicate shadows under them. His features were impossibly refined, his skin flawless, smooth like porcelain.

  With such a face, it wasn’t surprising that people would talk.

  She understood now why there were rumors. A boy like him… it wouldn’t be hard for the wrong kind of people to take notice.

  But lying there like this, Atticus looked so harmless. He had cried in his sleep, begging not to be abandoned. He looked utterly fragile—so lost, so pitiful.

  "What the hell happened to him… to turn him into the person he becomes later?"

  Clarissa murmured the question to herself, the thought bringing back fragments of the nightmare she had the night before.

  For a moment, she felt disoriented.

  What exactly was she doing?

  A wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over her. She yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. Before she could think about it any further, she drifted off to sleep beside the bed.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  .......

  The first light of dawn seeped through the curtains. Atticus slowly opened his eyes.

  His sleep had been restless—plagued by nightmares for the first half of the night. But then, something changed. A warmth had enveloped him, pushing away the suffocating cold. A soft, gentle voice had whispered to him, lulling him into comfort.

  He had fallen into a warm, fragrant embrace, one so soothing he felt like he could melt into it.

  But now…

  Atticus blinked, his senses sharpening. The space around him was unfamiliar. He shifted slightly and felt something soft under his fingers—smooth, delicate skin.

  …What the hell?

  A strange sense of unease crept over him. He turned his head suddenly— And saw Clarissa, asleep beside him. His pupils contracted. Her?

  For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, as if sensing the shift, Clarissa stirred. She stretched slightly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before looking up at him groggily. They stared at each other in silence, the weight of the moment hanging between them.

  Clarissa was the first to speak. “You’re awake. You had a high fever last night, so I brought you back here. Are you feeling any better?”

  Atticus took a beat before responding, his voice still hoarse. “…Where is this?”

  “My place. I didn’t know where else to take you, so I brought you to my bed.”

  Her bed? That explained the warmth, the sweet, lingering scent surrounding him all night. His gaze flickered downward—

  His hand was still wrapped around Clarissa’s wrist. Realizing it in an instant, he let go as if he’d been burned.

  Clarissa sighed in relief as his fingers finally released her. But when she looked down at her wrist, she frowned slightly.

  A deep, reddish mark had been left on her pale skin, already darkening into a light bruise. It was proof of just how tightly he had been holding on.

  Atticus clenched his hands uneasily, his fingers tightening around the sheets. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

  The air between them grew thick, an awkward silence settling in.

  Clarissa wasn’t sure what to say either, so she simply turned around and walked to the kitchen. "I made porridge. If you don’t mind, have some."

  The aroma of slow-cooked lean meat porridge filled the room. It had been simmering at a constant temperature overnight, the rich fragrance thick in the air.

  Atticus swallowed involuntarily. His stomach twisted with hunger—he hadn’t eaten anything since noon yesterday, and the ache was unbearable.

  Clarissa brought the bowl over and set it in front of him. "Can you manage on your own?"

  For a moment, he hesitated. Then, without a word, he reached out, took the bowl, and picked up the spoon.

  The first sip burned his tongue, and he immediately choked, coughing hard.

  Clarissa quickly patted his back, her voice calm but firm. "Slow down. It’s still hot—blow on it first."

  Atticus coughed again, but this time, he listened. He blew gently on the spoon before taking another bite. Then another. And another.

  Clarissa watched as he practically inhaled the food, shoveling it down like he hadn’t eaten in days.

  A pang of sadness hit her. "Take it easy," she said softly. "There’s plenty more."

  Atticus didn’t stop until the bowl was completely empty. He held it in his hands for a moment, his fingertips pressing into the ceramic.

  Then, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Thank you. And… I’m sorry."

  Clarissa blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for.

  But the fact that he said it at all… surprised her.

  The rumors painted Atticus as someone cold, dangerous—someone to avoid. But sitting here now, with the way he quietly thanked her, he seemed nothing like the person people whispered about.

  Just a teenager.

  She took the empty bowl from his hands, her voice gentle. "I know you didn’t mean it. Do you want more? I’ll get you another bowl."

  After finishing three bowls, Atticus finally slowed down. He thanked her again before she took the dishes to the sink.

  Now that the tension had eased, Atticus shifted in bed—only to realize something was… off. He wasn’t wearing pants.

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