AB Chapter 8: The Feeling of Being Liked
"Do I... need to prepare anything?"
As soon as Michel said this, he immediately regretted it.
He wished he could turn back time by one minute and knock himself out!
It was hard to imagine that something sounding so suggestive—tinged with all kinds of pink-colored innuendos—would one day come out of his mouth.
"Ugh." Flustered, Michel shot up like a spring, clutching the salad bowl, not daring to look at Mr. Bumblebee’s expression. “Sorry, I was just joking. Uh, don’t take it seriously, haha…”
He was mortified! Michel felt like he must look absolutely ridiculous right now.
But across from him, Mr. Bumblebee tilted his head slightly, seriously considered the question, then replied, “You should prepare a little.”
Michel froze. “Huh?”
Simon: “I’m relatively hard.”
Michel: “……”
Simon: “I might break you.”
Michel: “……”
Simon smiled. “I’ll go prep in the room. You go take a shower first—I'll go after you're done.”
With that, he grabbed his luggage and turned around, bending over as he stepped into the bedroom, leaving behind a little flower that had lost all its color.
Michel, stunned and holding his salad bowl, looked like his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
What did he just say!?
Michel stared at the little red flower swaying above his head.
Was he trying to get intimate with me?
Was he?!
If not—then what the hell kind of wild, feral words were those!?
In a daze, as if drained of all color and spirit, the dark-haired youth stumbled into the bathroom. He stared at the warm water someone had thoughtfully prepared, stood silent for three seconds, then turned and decisively shut the door.
Click.
He even locked it.
Looking at the sturdy lock, Michel finally let out a deep breath, straightened up, and walked to the bathtub to start undressing.
He was wearing light clothes.
A pale blue wool shirt and similarly-colored jeans were quickly tossed into the laundry basket.
Michel sucked in a breath of cold air and stared at himself in the mirror.
So ugly.
After a long while, he told himself.
A body completely marked by poor health, his entire being had a pale, sunless quality. His cheeks were a bit red (a rare occurrence) as he faced the mirror.
His black pupils were warm and calm, now tinged with shyness and a trace of youthful anticipation—pure black and white, as if drawn with ink.
He had no sharp features, and the soft, gentle contours typical of East Asian facial structure gave him an innocent appearance.
His features were delicate, his eyebrows and eyes long and slightly upturned—that was probably his only advantage.
As for the rest... there was nothing.
The young man in the mirror pulled a bitter smile.
His black hair was fine and soft, strands lying flat on his head—not fluffy, not cute, and lacking any style.
The ends had grown out a little, brushing against his ears and nape, while his bangs barely touched his eyebrows.
Soft and silky—at least it matched his facial features.
But beyond his face, his body was just too thin.
Neither he nor the reflection in the mirror could believe how such a skin-and-bones body could still support him through daily life and work.
The sun had scorched all moisture from him; hunger had taken away his flesh and fat.
He looked like a bloodthirsty vampire. The kind that’s been dead for over eight hundred years.
“What kind of freak would like this kind of body?”
“Hah... are you trying to scare him off?”
Michel stared hard at the mirror, watching the blush fade from his cheeks and the shy glimmer in his eyes gradually vanish.
He glanced with disdain at the ribs sticking out of his chest, then tightened his lips and turned away—mocking the version of himself from moments ago who had been secretly thrilled by a confession and by some vaguely pink-tinted words.
What a joke.
He stopped looking in the mirror and sank himself into the bathtub.
He didn’t actually want to do anything with Simon.
Nor did he believe in love at first sight with a newly-met Mr. Bumblebee.
He was just... like any boy receiving their first love letter.
No matter if the sender was a man or woman, no matter how childish the tone, how messy the handwriting, even if it had the wrong words—regardless of whether the person writing it was “the one,” or if the ending was a firm rejection or crushing disappointment...
As long as... it was written for him.
That letter represented someone else’s affection for him.
That was someone else’s love for him...
A small, proud sense of being cherished and loved—it felt like an orange-flavored popsicle brushing away all the heat and dryness, bringing coolness and joy.
It made you want to skip around, hum songs, and laugh out loud without even realizing it.
For Michel, this kind of luxury experience was far too rare.
Because he didn’t have time to waste on love—he had to support himself.
And who would love someone whose life consisted only of study halls and part-time jobs, endless welfare forms to fill out, someone who’d used up all their smiles and youthful passion too early?
It wasn’t like he hadn’t dreamed of a hero suddenly appearing. But looking back now, he knew those were just childish fantasies.
But now—
A certain Mr. Bumblebee had appeared.
He said “I love you.”
He cooked him dinner.
He entered Michel’s life, blending in quickly and completely, naturally and perfectly.
Even though Michel, who had been walking alone on a frozen glacier, clearly knew he was accepting this warmth too easily, too foolishly, he still let Mr. Bumblebee stay without a word.
[Don’t go. Stay with me. Give me warmth.]
[Yes, I need someone to love me. Please love me.]
Being honest was hard—it was too embarrassing to say out loud.
A little red flower on top of his head drooped its thin stem, like a tiny fairy squatting in his hair looking down at his face, desperate to shout, “I need love and care!”
The flower wobbled and swayed,
Spreading its longing, affecting the dark-haired youth’s heart.
Michel scooped up water from the bathtub and splashed it on his face, pulling his legs up as he sank beneath the surface.
“I have family now… him and me, we’re family… or awkward spouses.” Michel smiled, lifting his right hand to poke at the flower on top of his head.
The little red flower tilted back from the poke, let out a silent ‘whee~’, and flopped forward again.
Michel could feel the touch resonate throughout his whole body, like someone had shoved him a little.
“So you really are growing out of my head.” He sighed, fully accepting the reality of blooming from his scalp. Bathing was boring anyway—he didn’t mind consulting with the little flower on his head about the night’s upcoming events.
Especially when alone, Michel’s IQ and childishness seemed inversely proportional.
Their topic of discussion?
What might happen tonight.
Michel mumbled, “Hey, do you think what he said earlier was a hint? It had to be, right?”
The flower swayed excitedly.
Michel: “He and I are legally married, so even if something happens I can’t stop it. If I resist, he could shut me up with one punch—did you see his fist? It’s the size of my head! And his mech…”
The little flower trembled in fear.
Michel: “But I don’t think he’d hit me. Really. I think he’s a good guy—uh, a good bee. He even made promises to Aunt Jasmine. He’s just... too blunt.”
Throwing out “I love you” so casually…
The little flower bashfully folded its petals.
“Oh, right, the bacon and eggs he made for dinner! That was so good, I—”
In childish mode, Michel chatted away with the unnecessary extra growing out of his head.
Like a kid who had to have a rubber ducky during bath time and even mimic its voice.
When he was happy, the little flower on his head swayed joyfully like an emotional meter. When he wasn’t, it drooped pitifully, begging to be loved.
Once the water cooled, Michel stepped out of the tub, drying himself off.
The little heart-to-heart left him in such a good mood he hummed as he put on his pajamas and towel-dried his hair—carefully patting the flower on his head in front of the mirror.
Shhhh—
Michel opened the bathroom door with a smile.
A certain giant bumblebee was standing straight outside the door, lovingly watching the little idiot who’d been talking to himself.
That gaze—like he was seeing his long-lost child.
Oh.
Not “like.” It was.
Just replace “child” with “wife.”
Michel: “…” That frozen smile feeling? Yeah, got it.
“You heard me.” You heard all that dumb stuff I said.
The flower on his head: blank stare.
“No, I didn’t.”
Mr. Bumblebee’s face was serious and righteous.
“You did hear me!”
“No, I really didn’t.”
“Liar! Did you laugh when I slipped in the tub?”
Mr. Bumblebee looked horrified, instantly bending down to lift Michel’s pajamas.
“Baby, you slipped?! Why?! Let me see—why didn’t I hear you call out, are you hurt—”
His hand pulled up the SpongeBob-print yellow pajamas, revealing a smooth belly and damp skin.
No bruises. Just steam.
Mr. Bumblebee’s hand froze mid-air.
“Oh~” Michel, with an angry flower sprouting from his head like it wanted to stab someone, glared upward with dead-fish eyes and pulled a stiff smirk. “And you still say you didn’t eavesdrop?”
“……”
Embarrassed beyond belief, Michel gave Simon a murderous glare and bolted to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Simon, who had only meant to not miss any cute moments from his baby, slowly lowered his arm.
I messed up. Baby’s mad at me.
His antennae drooped. Simon sat in the living room for two hours before finally gathering the courage to check on the flower’s health and quietly push open Michel’s door.
“Baby…”
He sat by the bed, looking at the bundle curled under the covers like a cocoon. The bed creaked tragically under his weight.
“I was wrong.”
Simon was nervous.
“I’ll never bother you during bath time again. I promise!”
Who cares about that? Michel pouted under the blanket, muttering: “That’s not why I’m mad…”
Simon, staring at the lump on the bed, felt overwhelmed by cuteness. “Then tell me why. I’ll fix it.”
It was… kind of embarrassing. Michel stayed silent, then finally murmured:
“You heard all that dumb stuff… Do I seem like an idiot to you?”
“Of course not!”
Simon immediately refuted that, baffled that his flower would even think so. He leaned down, his cheek against the lump, voice warm with laughter:
“You’re adorable—just, absolutely adorable. Every second I’m not with you, I regret.”
“You are my flower.”
“I’ll always love you, no matter what form you take.”
“I shouldn’t have eavesdropped… but I really wanted to see you, to hear your voice. Before today, I kept imagining what you were like… I couldn’t bear to stay away.”
“……”
“I won’t do it again. Please don’t be mad at me, okay? I… get scared when you’re upset.”
“……”
“Baby? Baby? Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Damn it!”
Inside the blanket, Michel covered his burning face.
“What?” Simon didn’t catch it.
“Nothing…” Michel peeked out from the blanket, half his face hidden, eyes shining like moonlight. “Ahem… what did you mean by what you said earlier?”
“Earlier?”
Simon looked confused. He didn’t think he’d said anything special.
Michel: “You know, the… hard thing you mentioned?”
“Oh, that.” Simon looked at Michel and the happy little red flower swaying on his head, then explained with awkward vocabulary:
“That’s not a mech. It’s my exoskeleton—my bug armor. My skin’s very hard. The bed’s small. I’ll sleep on the bottom. You can sleep on me. I’m afraid I’ll jab you, so you can lay a blanket on top and sleep there.”
Michel: “……”
Alright then.
Clearly I misunderstood. But somehow… I’m not surprised at all.
Now fully aware of the natural-born flirt that was his cohabitating jerk, Michel got up and let Simon onto the bed.
Sleeping on someone else was an oddly special experience.
But the tiny sofa couldn’t fit anyone, and maybe it was Michel’s imagination, but as he leaned against Simon, face burning, heart racing with another male’s heartbeat, sensing his warmth—he didn’t feel uncomfortable or disgusted.
There was just this deep, overwhelming sense of safety that told him: You’re home. This is where you belong. Pressed against his chest—that’s your bed.
The constant ringing in his ears was gone.
Even the usual stench of the trash bin and bathroom drain had vanished.
Everything—everything—was peaceful.
He’d shaken off the grime of life and flown straight into the clouds.
Simon’s rock-hard chest was more comfortable than any five-star hotel bed.
Michel, who thought he’d be too embarrassed to sleep, passed out instantly.
His face rosy, curled up on Simon’s chest, fingers unconsciously poking his chin and cheek like feeling out something unknown.
Simon held him like he was holding the whole world.
After twenty years of drifting and searching, his flower was finally back in his arms.
With veins bulging and trying hard to stay in control, Mr. Bumblebee gently adjusted Michel’s position, raising him a bit.
The tiny antenna on Simon’s head brushed Michel’s hand.
Michel grabbed it in his sleep, eyebrows relaxing, happily rubbing the tip of the antenna with his fingers.
A low laugh came from the man in the room.
“Darling.”
He kissed Michel’s flower.
“Goodnight.”
Wishing you sweet dreams.
[Author's Note]:
What Michel needs isn’t romantic love per se—
But warmth and care, the kind only family can give.
This chapter’s a 4,000-word double update—
I couldn’t stop writing, I’m addicted!
Just a heads-up: this story is all sweet fluff, sugar overload, and sticky honey-type sweetness.
No grand history, no epic battles.
No becoming world tycoons or yelling kill kill kill.
Thanks for understanding~🐝
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