Chapter 109: The Perfect Man

The next morning, she woke up alone.

The realization immediately struck her as strange.

She rarely woke up alone these days.

Either Eva was there.

Or Phoenix.

For several seconds, she remained motionless beneath the covers, still groggy with sleep, carrying that vague feeling that something was off.

The silence.

That was it.

Not absolute silence—the barracks were never completely silent—but an unusual calm.

No voices in the next room.

No sounds from the showers.

No activity from the gym.

No movement.

Nothing.

The pale light of dawn filtered through the heavy black curtains, painting faint lines across the dark walls.

Blanche blinked.

Where was she?

The question genuinely crossed her mind.

For a few seconds, her brain stubbornly refused to cooperate.

Then the memories of the previous evening slowly resurfaced.

Returning to the barracks.

Aaron's room.

Their conversations.

The sleep that had eventually claimed her.

Ah.

Right.

She was in Aaron's room.

And he had already disappeared.

Of course.

The warrior had probably been awake for hours already.

At this point, Blanche strongly suspected her housemate maintained a personal relationship with the laws of time.

Or survived on fifteen-minute naps between disasters.

Her gaze wandered across the room before settling on the desk.

Her uniform was waiting for her there.

Neatly folded.

Perfectly aligned.

As though it had been prepared for a military inspection.

Blanche couldn't suppress a smile.

Once again, she immediately recognized Aaron's touch.

Even when absent, he somehow found ways to take care of people.

Quietly.

Without comment.

Without seeking the slightest acknowledgment.

She pushed aside the blankets, stood up, and crossed the room at a leisurely pace.

Then her attention was drawn to the photographs.

The ones that had occupied her thoughts so long ago.

This time, she took her time.

Blanche had never truly had the opportunity to study them.

Like every member of the team—with the notable exception of Argy, whose pathological curiosity seemed entirely immune to the concept of privacy—she never entered Aaron's room.

Nobody did.

Not because he forbade it.

It simply never occurred to anyone.

Aaron naturally inspired that kind of respect.

You knocked before entering.

You didn't snoop.

And most people considered surviving his disappointed look far worse than any punishment he could possibly invent.

Blanche approached the frames.

Her eyes drifted from one photograph to another.

Decades of memories.

Perhaps more.

Smiles.

Journeys.

Moments of companionship captured in passing.

Derek.

Nicky.

Glen.

Argy.

Aaron.

A family that didn't officially carry the name, yet possessed every defining characteristic of one.

Some photographs made her smile.

Others tightened her chest with quiet emotion.

Because they conveyed something words never could.

Time.

Shared time.

Chosen time.

Time spent together despite arguments, tragedies, losses, and centuries.

It was strange.

She already knew all these people.

And yet seeing these images felt like discovering parts of them she'd never seen before.

Parts that were simpler.

Lighter.

Happier.

She lingered on a photograph where Argy was clearly in the middle of doing something stupid.

Another showed Derek wearing the resigned expression of a man who already regretted agreeing to whatever was happening.

Then her eyes found Aaron.

Again.

Always.

Sometimes smiling.

Sometimes serious.

But invariably present.

Like a fixed point around which the rest of the group revolved.

A pleasant warmth spread through her chest.

She was looking forward to it.

Looking forward to living moments like these.

Looking forward to creating memories of her own.

Looking forward to appearing one day in new photographs hanging on these walls.

Even if it meant leaving everything behind.

Or almost everything.

Because the thought always returned, inevitably.

The Otherworld.

The future.

The choices waiting for her.

Everything she would gain.

And everything she would have to leave behind.

The feeling was strange.

Bittersweet.

But for once, it didn't frighten her.

Eventually, she looked away from the photographs.

Her thoughts were becoming dangerously philosophical for someone who hadn't even had breakfast yet.

She let out a long sigh.

Between the emotions stirred by the photographs and the sudden drop in temperature, she shivered.

Her smile returned when she noticed the note resting atop her clothes.

Aaron's handwriting was identical to that of his alter ego: fine, elegant, and perfectly legible.

You looked so beautiful asleep that I didn't dare wake you.

Blanche felt her cheeks burst into flames.

If only Kiyan were a little more like Aaron...

She sighed again.

Of course he couldn't be.

Kiyan was her legal guardian.

Her homeroom teacher.

He knew her age.

So much ethics.

So many constraints.

The Otherworld, by contrast, seemed simpler.

Wilder, too.

She savored that thought while getting dressed.

Once her boots were on, she headed downstairs for breakfast.

She found her husband busy making homemade bread from durum wheat flour he had milled himself.

Fresh butter sat nearby.

Chestnut compote had been gently warmed for the occasion.

Blanche's stomach immediately protested.

The smell was heavenly.

Aaron smiled without turning around.

He had sensed her waking up.

Then making her way toward him.

"Good morning," she exclaimed.

He didn't answer immediately.

As always with Kiyan, silence seemed to be an integral part of the conversation.

He calmly finished kneading the dough, his long hands moving with almost hypnotic precision.

Flour coated his fingers all the way to his wrists, dusting his tanned skin white.

Every movement appeared perfectly mastered, as though he had spent his entire life baking bread.

Which, with him, was never entirely impossible.

Blanche watched in silence.

His dark shirt was rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean muscles shaped by years of training rather than any pursuit of aesthetics.

His brown curls, slightly longer than usual, occasionally fell across his forehead whenever he lowered his head.

Under the warm kitchen light, copper highlights appeared in his hair, while his amber eyes remained focused on his work.

It was profoundly unfair.

Some people had the right to be attractive while wearing a tailored three-piece suit.

Others while fighting.

Kiyan, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to extend that talent to baking.