All Chapters of My Enemy [BL]: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The morning light drifted gently through the kitchen window, spilling over the marble counter and catching dust motes in the air. I still had a pounding headache as I padded down the stairs, each step making the dull ache behind my eyes pulse a little more. My throat felt scratchy and dry, almost like I’d swallowed sandpaper during the night. Maybe I was coming down with something. Just great.I tried to convince myself it was probably nothing, just tired from the lake or maybe staying up too late reading by candlelight again. A couple of painkillers and a glass of water should do the trick. That’s what Mom would’ve said, at least. So I followed her advice, gulped them down, and hoped for the best before heading toward the warm, sweet smell wafting through the air.Rowan was in the kitchen, wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, flipping pancakes effortlessly. I lingered in the doorway, still too groggy to say anything, just watching him. His hair was a mess, still damp from his showe

He rubbed his jaw, his thumb brushing against the faint stubble there, muttering under his breath, "Guess that’s progress, huh?"Progress. That was one way to put it. Another way was torture.Because every time Atlas smiled, every time he laughed or looked at him with those wide, bright eyes, Rowan felt that old ache stirring in his chest again, the one he’d buried years ago beneath sarcasm and cruelty. It was easier when Atlas hated him. Back then, he could convince himself that he didn’t care. Pretend he was just another target, just another person who didn’t matter. But lately, all that pretending felt empty.And then there was Frank.He scowled at the thought, pushing a hand through his hair. Frank, with his perfect grin and easy charm. The guy everyone liked. The guy Atlas liked. The one who actually had the guts to tell Atlas how he felt. Rowan could still hear his casual tone when he mentioned it, like he didn’t realize how much that sentence had burned itself into his mind."H

Third Person's POVAtlas swallowed hard, still panting. "I... I’m sorry," he whispered hoarsely, brushing at his forehead. "I didn’t mean to—""Don’t," Rowan interrupted, shaking his head. "You don’t need to apologize for having a nightmare."He hesitated, watching her face closely. Atlas still looked pale and worn out, but there was something else lurking there too, a shadow of pain that had nothing to do with the fever. Something deeper.He wanted to ask about the dream, about the ’dad’ Atlas had mentioned, but the look in her eyes stopped him. It wasn’t the right moment. Not when he was still trembling. Not when the air felt so delicate between them.Instead, he just adjusted the blanket around Atlas’s shoulders and said, "Get some more sleep, hamster. I’m not going anywhere."Atlas gave a weak, half-asleep smile, and Rowan stayed by his side until his breathing evened out again.As night enveloped the room and rain began to tap lightly against the window, Rowan realized that carin

It had been eleven days since Mom and Roderick pretty much left us here, and somehow, meaning we had three days left till we returned back to civilization...Three days till freedom.The thought nearly brought tears of joy to my eyes.I was curled up on the couch by the fire, wrapped in a blanket with a book in my lap. The flames were crackling lazily, casting soft golden and orange hues around the room. I’d been staring at the same paragraph for five minutes, and the words just wouldn’t stick. The story was some dramatic historical romance—it wasn’t really my thing. I preferred fantasy and adventure, stories that took me away from my reality. This one was just making me drowsy.With a groan, I tossed the book onto the coffee table and stretched my arms. "I swear, if I read one more word about a duke’s mysterious longing, I’ll pull my hair out."Rowan had gone out for a walk about an hour ago, insisting I stay put because I was "still recovering." He said it in that infuriatingly comm

As I flipped further through the journal, the entries took on a different tone. The warmth that had once radiated from Carla’s words, the way she’d written about Rowan with such fierce love... seemed to be fading. The handwriting remained beautiful and elegant, but there was a weariness woven into every word, a slow dimming of light."Rowan’s growing so fast," one entry began, dated around his early teens. "He’s hardly home anymore. Always with his friends, always somewhere else. He still kisses my cheek when he leaves, but it’s quick now, distracted. I know this is normal, kids grow up, they drift away — but I can’t shake the feeling that the house gets quieter every time he walks out the door."I ran my finger along the edge of the page, feeling an ache in my chest that wasn’t entirely mine.. I could see it so clearly... a woman standing in the doorway, watching her teenage son leave with his friends, forcing a smile for him while breaking a little more inside every time he didn’t