Chapter 96
Proméon stared intently at Noxia with eyes filled with hurt and loneliness, then, noticing the whipped cream smeared at the corner of her lips, reached out without thinking.
“Here—you’ve got cream on you.”
Wrapping the remaining four fingers around her cheek, he wiped the cream from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. That, too, was truly something he did without thinking.
Noxia froze stiff, and Proméon froze as well. Then he startled and hurriedly pulled his hand back.
“S-sorry.”
He apologized in a rush. Having lived a life close to eternity, he had grown as solid as rock—yet only with one person did he fumble like this. Feeling embarrassed, he stumbled over his words, heat rising to his face like a boy’s.
It was beyond his expectations that Noxia’s face flushed as well. From the moment Proméon’s hand pressed lightly at the corner of her lips as it passed, her face had turned bright red.
Proméon panicked. Had she gotten angry because he touched her so carelessly? Was that why her face was now turning red and pale by turns? Or…
‘…If that’s not it, then.’
No—why, how—could she be blushing while looking at him?
Their gazes tangled together. A deep-blue, lake-like gaze and a fresh green gaze melted into one, then soon separated back into their own colors.
“It’s fine.”
Murmuring this, Noxia quickly averted her eyes. With a stiff gait, she walked straight ahead, creaking with tension, while Proméon followed behind with a dazed look.
For quite a while, the two wandered aimlessly. Noxia set no destination, and Proméon, without making any suggestions or asking any questions, simply followed her in silence.
In the middle of the bustling night market, an unnatural silence flowed between them. And contrary to their outward taciturnity, each of their inner thoughts was in turmoil.
‘Why. Why? Why… are you making that kind of expression while looking at me?’
Lacking the courage to ask outright, Proméon endlessly mulled it over. The vivid blush that had colored Noxia’s face earlier, and the meaning hidden within that rosy hue.
Could it be that Noxia was wavering because of him? That she felt even a little flutter toward him? When his hand touched her, did she feel a warm tremor? No—surely not.
Proméon knew that Noxia had not yet completely forgotten Elenon Hermeon.
Unlike Noxia, he did not sleep at night, and from time to time he heard her tossing in discomfort, murmuring in her sleep.
The name she whispered in that half-asleep state was not Proméon’s. He could not ask what words she exchanged in her dreams with the lover from her third life that made her groan so painfully.
All he could do was hope her nightmares would end quickly—and if she had to have nightmares, wish that he could appear there instead—gently soothing her, whispering lullabies as he stroked her.
Then, when her breathing became calm again, he would sometimes take a handful of her hair and softly kiss it, just as he had before.
Yes—there was still a lover of Noxia Dekan in Hermane’s heart. And yet she was blushing while looking at him? Proméon could not understand it. He did not dare to hope.
Meanwhile, Noxia felt so foolishly shaken in her heart in front of her husband from a past life that she wanted to give up everything and throw herself off a cliff.
‘I’m going crazy. I really am.’
No—had she already gone crazy? Ever since she started harboring a tremor toward Proméon without even sorting out her longing for Elenon.
Even when she hated Proméon for various reasons, seeing him brought back all the time they had spent together in her first life, making her chest ache.
Because she pitied him for having endured hollow immortality alone while she went through two deaths and reincarnations.
Because in his blue eyes there was a ferocious, blind love directed at her, Noxia Dekan’s heart—which had rejected him for so long—was gradually being assimilated by Hermane’s lingering attachment.
When Proméon brushed the corner of her lips earlier, she felt no dislike at all. Her heart simply sank, and a dizzying thirst surged up.
It was something she had already experienced countless times in a past life—something she could not pretend not to understand. It was a clear premonition of desire toward Proméon.
‘I’m insane.’
Yes. She had already gone insane. Noxia clenched her teeth without realizing it.
Both Noxia and Proméon were so absorbed in their own anguish that they failed to sense the external danger approaching them.
Wherever many people gather, incidents and accidents are bound to occur. This place was precisely a breeding ground for them—and by an unfortunate coincidence, Noxia got caught right in the middle.
Among the foods sold at the night market were hot soups served in large paper cups. Someone walking around with a cup of soup eventually lost their footing.
“Ugh!”
“Watch out!”
The man holding the soup groaned, the woman with him cried out in surprise, and as his center of gravity tilted sharply, the contents of the paper cup spilled forward.
Standing right in front of him, Noxia realized the danger far too late. Anticipating the dreadful outcome of having scalding soup poured all over her body, she squeezed her eyes shut.
“H-huh…!”
She heard the man who spilled the soup gasp in shock. Yet she felt neither the wet sensation of thick liquid nor the stinging pain of a burn.
Instead, a now-familiar solid arm wrapped around Noxia and pulled her into an embrace.
Noxia snapped her eyes open. A soft shirt collar brushed her cheek. Broad shoulders and thick arms filled her view.
Dazed, she lifted her head. A smooth jaw, softly shaped lips, a straight nose, long lashes—and beneath them, deep-blue eyes spread out like a winter night’s lake.
“Are you okay?”
Proméon whispered. In his gaze was nothing but concern for the person before him.
“H-hey, you—!”
Now it was Noxia who gasped in shock. The man who had spilled the soup hurried over in a panic.
“I’m so sorry, I’m really sorry! A-are you all right?”
“We should get you to a hospital right away—!”
It wasn’t Noxia who had been drenched in steaming hot soup.
Proméon, who had sensed the danger too late just like her, had thrown himself forward at the last moment and pulled her into his arms—getting soaked in the soup in her place.
With his keen senses, if he had been paying attention as usual, he could have protected Noxia in a far more refined way.
But he had been so absorbed in Noxia’s blush moments before that his awareness dulled, and by the time he realized the danger, there was no time to pull her back.
In the end, he chose a somewhat crude but very effective method: shielding her with his own body. Thanks to that, she wasn’t burned—and Proméon was satisfied with that.
Noxia herself, however, was not satisfied at all. She was unbearably angry. Glaring at him—his shoulder to elbow soaked through with soup—she clenched her teeth.
“Um, I’m really sorry. I’ll pay for the medical bills, so please, let’s go to the hospital—”
“No, it’s all right. I appreciate the thought, but I’m not seriously hurt, so please don’t worry.”
After smoothly calming the flustered man, Proméon lightly wrapped an unsoaked arm around Noxia’s shoulders and turned.
Before the man could even finish speaking, Proméon quickly led Noxia through the crowd.
Strangely enough, wherever he walked, the path opened, and before they knew it, they had left the market and entered a quiet alley.
It was a rural area with few streetlights, so once they stepped away from the market, darkness fell abruptly. It was already full twilight. The reddish glow on the western horizon remained as the only trace of sunset.
In the dimness filled with the sound of insects, Noxia glared daggers at Proméon. Her voice trembled thinly.
“Show me your arm.”
“I’m not hurt, Hermane. You know that.”
“No, I don’t. So show me.”
At her low command, Proméon obediently rolled up his damp shirt sleeve and held out his arm.
“See? I’m perfectly fine. It’s just the clothes that got ruined.”
He spoke gently. In the faint darkness, Noxia stared hard at his arm, which looked smooth and unblemished.
“Can I touch it?”
“Huh?”
“Your arm. Can I touch it to see if it’s really okay? It’s too dark to see properly.”
Just looking wasn’t enough to reassure her. She wanted to make sure he was truly fine—that it wasn’t simply hard to tell in the dim light.
“…Yeah. Touch it.”
Proméon whispered. The moment permission was given, Noxia reached out without hesitation.
“Ah—.”
As she carefully traced his arm, Proméon clenched his teeth and let out something like a groan. Startled, Noxia quickly pulled her hand away.
“A-are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn’t hurt at all. I told you—I’m fine.”
“Then why…?”
About to demand why he’d made that sound if it didn’t hurt, Noxia lost her words when she met the gaze drilling straight into her.
In the darkness, his eyes boring into her were filled with undisguised heat.
It was too intense and pure to be mistaken, ignored, or laughed off lightly—like the flame he had once stolen from the palace of the gods.
Under the sky deepening into dark blue, stars scattered thickly above, and in the silence where only insects could be heard, it felt as though time had stopped. In that space, only the two of them existed.
Without realizing it, Noxia took a step back. She barely managed to force out her voice.
“So you weren’t hurt at all? Or were you hurt and it healed right away?”
“…Hard to say. It’s closer to being hurt and healing immediately.”
Proméon answered as calmly as he could, barely reining in the heat. Still, his eyes remained warm.
Even after flames burn out and only ashes remain, embers still glow within the ash, retaining their heat.
“Do you feel pain when you get hurt?”
Noxia pressed again. Proméon answered honestly.
“Yes. I do.”
Noxia’s face twisted. Proméon realized the astonishing fact that she was angry because he had been hurt. Along with confusion, exhilaration boiled up inside him.
“Crazy bastard.”
She muttered sharply. This time, Proméon was fairly hurt—not because she failed to thank him and instead called him crazy.
[Crazy bastard.]
Those were the words Hermane had spat out after regaining her memories in a past life, right after slapping Proméon’s cheek.
Back then, after kidnapping her, he had forcibly kissed her, so considering his crime, it was a surprisingly mild insult.
Still, the image of Hermane glaring at him as if she were looking at something utterly repulsive, crying as she did, was vividly preserved in his memory.
Her tone, her eyes, every gesture—he remembered them as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
He would probably never forget them for as long as this cursed life lasted. And if this life truly went on forever, then he would never forget them for all eternity.
