AB Chapter 7: The First Night
"Sweetheart, you need to stay alert, okay?"
"Uh-huh."
"Make sure you remember everything I told you!"
"Okay."
"And the alarm device — don’t let it out of your reach for even a second!"
"I know… Aunt Jasmine, you’ve only got fifteen minutes before you’re late. You’ve got a report tonight—Uncle Bob told me."
Standing in front of his small apartment, Michel pressed his dry, chapped lips together, wanting nothing more than to end the conversation quickly — especially since the subject of their discussion was standing right behind him.
There was nothing worse than badmouthing someone right in front of them.
Even though Mr. Bumblebee hadn’t shown any displeasure — in fact, his behavior had been downright polite and humble.
Leaning against the patrol car with her arms crossed, Jasmine rolled her eyes and muttered, “Bob and his big mouth!”
Michel gave a tight-lipped smile.
Jasmine glanced at her sweet little angel, then shot a glare at the newly assigned guardian standing behind Michel, her voice cold and warning:
"I know how you Peipeijia people are. Don’t you dare lay a finger on my child, or I will make you regret coming to Earth! A-l-i-e-n!"
"Aunt Jasmine!" Michel frowned.
Calling someone an “alien” like that was definitely discriminatory — way out of line. Just as Michel was about to stop his aunt, the man behind him suddenly spoke.
He said, "I. Am legal."
Michel: "?"
Aunt Jasmine: "What?"
"I," Simon pointed at himself, then placed his left hand on Michel’s thin shoulder, "am his legal husband."
Michel: "…"
Aunt Jasmine: "You little—"
"But I won’t do anything," Simon said calmly, "Not until baby accepts me. Not until he is healthy. I won’t do anything."
"..."
"Because I love him — more than he does himself. More than you do."
"..."
That familiar word, love, spoken in such a direct and unfamiliar way, sent Michel’s blood rushing straight to his head, ringing in his ears.
He stood with his back to Simon, feeling the hand on his shoulder heavy and scorching — as though it could crush him.
Simon’s expression was serious. Frank.
So honest that even picky, disapproving Aunt Jasmine stood there, mouth open, eyes wide, speechless. In the end, she could only mumble a dry "Be careful" to Michel before turning and driving off — not uttering another sarcastic word.
Michel gave a delayed nod toward the departing car, unsure how to face the man who had just confessed to him.
Uh, that was a confession, right?
Maybe not…
Alien expressions were always hard to interpret. Maybe he’d just used the wrong—
"I love you."
Michel: "..."
The thin, black-haired young man widened his eyes in disbelief, turning abruptly to stare up at the man who had just uttered those three words.
Simon was perfectly sincere. “I love you.”
He repeated it.
"Love isn’t illegal. I know. So loving you doesn’t violate any local laws. Your—Aunt, she can’t stop me. This is my feeling."
Michel: "..."
Simon watched his little flower’s stunned expression with interest, then gently ruffled his hair, carefully avoiding the small blossom nestled in the middle.
"Alright, let’s go inside. It’s cold and noisy out here — your head will hurt."
"Ah? Oh…"
Simon picked up the suitcase in one hand and took Michel’s cold hand in the other, wrapping it completely in his warm palm, rubbing it with his thumb while bending over slightly.
Just like a big dad holding his little carrot-headed son, he naturally led the dazed Michel back to the apartment door.
He fished the key out of Michel’s jeans pocket, unlocked the door, ducked under the frame (too short for him), lifted Michel up to help him out of his shoes and into fluffy pink-and-blue bunny slippers, wrapped him in the blanket on the sofa, and sat him down. Then he unpacked the suitcase — right in front of Michel…
Dear God…
Michel silently called to the heavens.
The way Simon behaved… the way they interacted… it felt too familiar.
As if they weren’t strangers fresh out of a police station, but a married couple — the “husband” who’d just come home from a trip and the “wife” lazing on the couch.
Michel absentmindedly accepted the cup of milk-and-sugar coffee.
The massive Mr. Bumblebee, nearly scraping the ceiling, stood above him with a spatula, asking, “What do you want for dinner? Bacon and eggs okay? Not much left in the fridge. Drink something warm first. I didn’t put much coffee powder.”
Michel: "...Anything’s fine."
"Got it."
Simon nodded and returned to the kitchen, spatula in hand.
One second, two, three—
Michel cautiously peeked into his tiny, pitiful kitchen to find the big, muscular Mr. Bumblebee moving like a real bee gathering nectar, expertly handling the cooking.
Clink, clatter.
The sound of running water was loud.
Michel stiffly turned back around, took a sip of his coffee, and after finishing it, bit his lip—hard.
“Hiss—”
It hurt!
So this wasn’t a dream… Has the world truly gone mad?
Am I really going to live with a bumblebee from now on?
Oh—F**k!!!
What the hell kind of rollercoaster, three-star fantasy novel day is this!?
Michel’s face went numb. He realized his stiff expressions and reactions were probably not fast enough for whatever might happen next.
But no matter what happened next, he probably wouldn’t be surprised.
For example: he and Simon sat at the same table and peacefully finished a surprisingly delicious dinner.
Then: Simon washed the dishes, brought him some fruit and yogurt, and told him to watch TV.
Michel robotically alternated between bites of fruit and yogurt, staring blankly at a talk show on TV. As night fell, the sound of his heartbeat drowned out the studio laughter.
He couldn’t even taste what he was eating.
He felt like a gambler, waiting for the final card to be revealed.
His nose picked up the scent of detergent blending with the leftover smell of oil from the kitchen. The sound of dishes ceased. Heavy footsteps echoed across the floor — thud, thud, thud.
A foreign scent and body heat approached his back…
A countdown ticked in his mind.
Tick, tock…
Irritation bubbled up, an urge to break something building inside him.
Someone whispered near his ear: It’s coming… almost here…
Almost…
“It’s late. Shall we go to bed?”
A deep, accented voice murmured in his ear.
It’s here!
At that moment, Michel stopped breathing. His pale fingers clenched around the salad bowl, twitching.
The gambler revealed his final card and slammed it on the table — sending his blood pressure through the roof!
"Okay."
Michel swallowed, voice trembling as he asked:
"Do I… need to prepare anything?"
[Author’s Notes]:
[Mini Theater]
Little Flower: Mommy I’m scared (covers his little flower)!
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