39

Just a few hours later, my obnoxious alarm jolts me out of what feels like a short yet impossibly deep sleep. I wake up still wrapped in Villain Sama's arms, in the exact position we'd fallen asleep in the night before. The first rays of sunlight filter through the window, casting a soft glow on his face as he stirs slightly, his arms still locked tightly around me like chains.

I try to wiggle free to shut off the alarm, but even half-asleep, his grip is unyielding. It only adds fuel to the simmering irritation from last night—the way things ended, and my own embarrassment for acting like some crazed nymphomaniac.

Frustration boiling over, I lean down and sink my teeth into his collarbone—hard. It's the only outlet I have for the pent-up emotions swirling inside me, a release of everything that built up between us last night. My bite is a sharp, cathartic burst of anger at him, at myself, at the whole damn situation.

"Keep biting me like that, and I'll make sure you never walk again," his voice rasps out, low and rough with sleep. His words, instead of making me back off, only stoke the fire. I bite down harder, determined to leave some mark, something to show for my frustration. His collarbone is annoyingly strong—how has it not cracked yet?

But instead of retaliating, he simply pats my back, his hand moving in slow circles, soothing me like I'm some angry kitten. I can't even with this man.

"Let me up," I mutter through clenched teeth, barely concealing the anger and humiliation coursing through me. The fact that I'm more embarrassed at myself than at him only makes it worse. I should have been the one to stop things last night. He was drunk, and instead of me being the responsible one, it ended up being him. And now, all I want is some distance, a little space to calm down and shake off the lingering shame.

As he loosens his grip slightly, I pull away, needing a moment to breathe, to let off steam, and to not think about how his morning voice somehow makes me angrier and more flustered all at once.

When I finally step out of the bathroom, skin pruned from the scalding shower that felt like an attempt to cleanse away more than just the grime, the first thing I notice is the stillness. He's gone. There's no trace of his presence except for the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the air. The silence is oddly satisfying, like the calm after a storm, yet there's a nagging sense of emptiness tugging at me. It's a weird contradiction—relieved and disappointed all at once.

I scan the room, my eyes landing on the table. Of course, no black card waiting to be claimed like some hidden treasure. Instead, a plain silver one sits there, along with a note, short and to the point, with a series of numbers I assume are the password. I snort. The man can barely manage more than a few words, even in writing. Classic Villain Sama—straight to business, no unnecessary details.

Not about to turn down free money, I pocket the card without a second thought, deciding I deserve a little compensation for my emotional turmoil. With one last glance at the empty room, I head out, ready to lose myself in the lab work again.

---

Days melt into each other after that. Every morning, I find myself at the lab, lost in the sterile world of microscopes, data, and vials. The work is repetitive but strangely grounding. I throw myself into it, almost relishing the dull routine. After hours of piecing together the scattered information about the virus, I return to Villain Sama's place. It's become... a habit.

The nights are oddly serene. We sit across from each other at the dining table, quietly sharing meals that are way too normal for the situation we're in. Sometimes we talk, but it's mostly silence, a comfortable one that I never thought would exist between us. He listens more than he speaks, his eyes occasionally lingering on me like he's trying to figure something out. There's no tension, no snide remarks, just an unspoken truce that feels almost... domestic.

After dinner, we fall into an even stranger routine—bedtime. No heated moments like that night, no awkward touches. Just sleep. We settle into bed, his arm sometimes draped lazily over my waist, his breath soft against the back of my neck. It's ridiculously wholesome for what should've been a more complicated situation. But still, beneath the calm, there's a tension that simmers, a quiet storm waiting to break. And even though the nights are peaceful, I can't shake the feeling that this harmony is just the eye of the hurricane. Something is coming.

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