Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 323: ’Concern Instead Of Cold.’

Chapter 323: ’Concern Instead Of Cold.’

There was a flicker of something across Alexandria’s face—surprise, maybe. Confusion. Hurt? But it passed quickly, replaced with that same serene smile she always wore like a perfectly painted mask. The kind of smile that was practiced. Measured.

Empty.

"Of course," she said smoothly, though her voice had lost that melodic lightness. It was too even. Too composed. "I understand."

She rose gracefully from her seat, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. Every movement was precise—elegant. Detached. As if she hadn’t just witnessed a man unraveling into Florian’s arms. As if this were all some ordinary tea break in a sunlit sitting room.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t linger.

"I’ll visit another time. Thank you for the tea," she added, bowing her head just slightly, her tone now perfectly neutral. But then she paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle.

"And good luck tomorrow."

With those words, she stepped out. Her footsteps were soft, almost weightless—but the silence she left behind was anything but. The moment the door clicked shut, it was like something in the room shifted—the air colder, the shadows deeper, the warmth that once lingered from polite conversation now smothered by silence and tension.

Florian stood there for a moment, frozen, still holding onto Lancelot.

The only sound now was the ragged rhythm of Lancelot’s breathing—warm against his neck, uneven, like he’d been running for miles only to find nowhere to rest. Florian could feel the tremble in his arms, just faintly, like something barely restrained.

He wanted to ask so many questions.

’Why are you here?’

’Why are you hugging me?’

But his throat felt dry. His mind raced. His heart beat faster than it should.

Instead, Florian just exhaled slowly, almost in defeat, and let his arms tighten slightly around the taller man. He wasn’t even sure why he did it. Maybe instinct. Maybe pity. Maybe something else entirely.

He let his voice break the silence.

"What happened, Lancelot?"

Lancelot didn’t respond. Not at first.

There was only the sound of his breath against Florian’s skin, shallow and soft. His arms didn’t loosen. In fact, his grip tightened just slightly—like he wasn’t ready to be alone again. Like letting go might make him shatter.

Florian shifted a little, attempting to lighten the mood. "Come on, Lancelot. At this point, you’re going to kill me from suffocation."

It was a weak attempt at humor. A poor joke. But he hoped it would coax something out of him. Anything.

Lancelot finally spoke, his voice so low Florian almost missed it.

"...My father came to speak to me."

Florian’s brow furrowed. That alone was enough to stir concern in his chest, but before he could ask why, a soft growl echoed above his head.

Florian froze.

Oh no.

Azure.

The little dragon had awoken from his nap, and the moment he spotted Lancelot—pressed against Florian like a threat—his entire tiny body tensed. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat. Smoke began to curl in the air around them like warning ribbons.

Florian didn’t even think.

Before Azure could strike, he squirmed just enough to free an arm and gently clasped the little dragon’s snout, glancing up at him with sharp eyes.

’No.’

He didn’t speak it aloud, but his gaze carried the weight of the command. And Azure, though visibly displeased, hesitated. His wings twitched. His tail thumped lightly once. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he gave a small croaking grunt of reluctant understanding and settled down, though his violet eyes still glared at Lancelot with distrust.

Only once the tension from Azure eased did Florian turn his attention back to the man still holding him.

"What did he speak to you about?" he asked again, gentler this time.

Lancelot exhaled, and slowly—almost reluctantly—pulled back. His arms didn’t fall away completely, but he eased just enough for Florian to finally see his face.

And gods.

Florian’s heart ached at the sight.

The Lancelot he knew—the smug, confident, cocky commander who could charm his way out of anything—was gone.

In his place was someone pale and hollow-eyed. Someone who looked like he hadn’t slept. Someone who had been dragged through something cruel and had barely come out the other side. His brows were furrowed in a way that seemed unintentional, like his face had been stuck in worry for too long. There was a heaviness in his expression that Florian didn’t know how to fix.

It was raw.

It was vulnerable.

It was Lancelot—broken.

’Whatever happened... it really fucked him up.’

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

Lancelot looked down at Florian, whose wide, vivid green eyes were locked onto his own. They shimmered with unspoken questions, full of worry and disbelief, and something far more tender than Lancelot had ever expected to see from him.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He hadn’t meant to come here.

But somehow, his legs had brought him to Florian’s door like they had a will of their own. His thoughts had been a storm, too loud, too cruel, until everything collapsed into one desperate instinct—to find him.

He was tired.

No—he was exhausted.

Bone-deep, soul-deep exhaustion.

And before he even realized it, he had knocked. Then Florian had opened the door, and—

God.

Everything hurt a little less the moment he saw his face.

’He seems worried...’

The Prince of Valmont—so often cold and distant, sharp-tongued and closed off—was now gently holding him, arms wrapped around Lancelot like he was something precious, something worth holding onto. His brows were drawn, lips slightly parted, voice soft and hesitant.

The same prince Lancelot had teased mercilessly, had pestered for smiles and reactions, was now looking at him like he mattered.

How could anyone not fall for him?

How could he not?

"Lancelot?" Florian whispered again, voice barely above a breath. "Come on... tell me what happened."

That voice. It shouldn’t have soothed him as much as it did. It was gentle—sweet in ways Florian probably didn’t even realize. And it melted something in Lancelot’s chest. Something locked away and fragile.

His heart pounded, so loud it echoed in his ears. But Florian’s voice gave him the strength to speak.

He swallowed.

"I was in my room," Lancelot began quietly, eyes unfocused, as if his mind was already being dragged backward. "Apparently... my father had ordered the servants to tell him where I’ve been staying in the castle."

He paused, his jaw clenching as the fresh memory began to surface—sharp and bitter.

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