Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 82: Two Passes, Please....

But I feel his eyes on me. Not on the shop, not on the street, not on anything else.

His gaze is fixed on the side of my face, heavy and unwavering, as if I’m the only thing that exists in his world right now.

And in that moment, with the cheerful chime of the doorbell announcing our entry into a world of bright colors and plush toys, the last piece of my frustration clicks into a plan.

Now I understand.

This crazy, unpredictable, spoiled Alpha isn’t moved by logic, by apologies, by grand gestures. He’s bored.

He’s seeking a reaction. He’s playing a game where only he knows the rules.

Fine.

If he wants a reaction, if he wants to be pulled out of his boredom, if he wants to follow me around like a silent, beautiful storm cloud...

I’ll give him an experience he didn’t see coming.

A slow, determined smile begins to touch my lips as we step into the candy-colored chaos of the shop.

Let’s see how the great Moon Arden, superstar of the world, handles a little fun.

Moon stands at the entrance, his posture stiff, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over the scene inside the shop. It’s a world of soft colors and gentle chaos.

A cozy, whimsical place filled with flowers, the low hum of happy chatter, and couples engrossed in small, shared tasks—braiding love bracelets, assembling tiny bouquets for each other, painting ceramic mugs with clumsy, earnest joy.

I watch him. I’m certain a place like this has never existed in his universe of photoshoots and VIP lounges.

And honestly? It never existed in mine either. In my past life, there was no money for whimsy, no time for glue and glitter.

A staff girl behind the counter offers a small bow.

"Good evening, sir."

I step forward, a practiced, polite smile on my lips.

"Two passes, please."

She nods, all polite efficiency, and slides two laminated passes across the counter.

I pass her my card and glance at Moon. He’s still just... absorbing it. His blue eyes track a couple laughing as they fumble with a bracelet, his expression unreadable.

The staff girl hands me back my card.

"Enjoy your time, sir."

I nod, pocket the card, and walk back to my reluctant companion. I hold out a pass.

"Wear this. So we can go in."

His attention shifts from the scene to me. He looks at the colorful passes in my hand, then his eyes lift to mine, cool and dismissive.

"I’m not going inside," he states flatly.

I keep my expression neutral. "It’ll be fun. Weren’t you the one complaining you were bored?"

He looks away, his pride a visible shield. "I said a perfect place. A good place." His gaze sweeps over the cozy, crowded shop again, and his lip curls ever so slightly.

"Not some cheap, overcrowded shop. I can’t stay here. If my fans find me, this place will be a disaster in minutes." He looks back at me, a familiar, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.

"It’ll be a mess."

I stare at him, completely unimpressed. "Just wear it. I want to go in."

He leans in a fraction, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that feels too intimate for the bright, cheerful space around us. A wink, sharp and knowing.

"You’re acting like we’re some kind of couple..." He lets the words hang, then adds, the whisper laced with teasing venom, "Don’t tell me you have a crush on me."

I stare back, deadpan.

Hell. No. Way.

"Weren’t you the one," I counter, my voice dry as dust, "who booked out an entire VIP floor of a restaurant for us? Like it was some kind of private lunch date? Now what’s the problem with enjoying this?"

He just stares, unmoved, his blue eyes looking even sharper, more cutting, framed by the black face mask pulled under his chin.

Fine. If he won’t move on his own, I’ll make him.

Before he can voice another arrogant protest, I move.

I reach up and loop the pink cord over his head. The pass settles against the stark black of his designer coat—a ridiculous, fragile splash of color, like a pathetic flag of surrender.

I yank my own pass over my neck, the cold laminate slapping lightly against my chest, loud in the space between us.

Done.

His eyes widen.

"Zyren—!"

I don’t let him finish. I grab his hand—a perfect mirror of how he manhandled me earlier—and pull. I drag him forward, through the entrance, into the warm, sweet-scented air of the shop.

He stumbles a step, a surprised sound escaping him.

"Zyren...!"

But I don’t listen. I just keep pulling him deeper into the pastel-colored chaos.

Turnabout is fair play, cousin.

You dragged me to a suffocatingly fancy restaurant, lying about being starving. Now you get dragged into a world of glitter and Love bracelets.

Whether your pride can handle it or not.

Moon and I sit at a tiny, brightly painted table, surrounded by a symphony of laughter and easy conversation. The air is thick with the scent of flowers and craft glue, a bubble of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

Moon, however, might as well be on a different planet. He sits perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the bowl of colorful plastic beads in front of him as if they’re a complex scientific anomaly he can’t quite decipher.

I sigh internally. This is like trying to get a marble statue to play hopscotch.

"Moon," I say, keeping my voice light. "Let’s make bracelets."

He slowly lifts his gaze from the beads to my face. A single, perfect eyebrow arches.

"You really think I’m going to waste my energy on this... junk?"

I stare at him. God, grant me patience.

Fine. If he wants to be a decorative, brooding lump, so be it. I pick up the string and start sorting through the beads. His refusal doesn’t matter.

I’m going to make something. For Angel. A small, sweet apology for the chaos of morning.

I begin selecting beads, my focus narrowing. Soft pastel colors.

And then I find them—the alphabet beads. I start picking them out, one by one, spelling a name.

A... N... G... E... L...

I can feel Moon’s eyes on me. A heavy, focused weight. I don’t look up. I keep my head down, my fingers working with a concentration I didn’t know I had for something so simple.

Suddenly— his hand shoots out. His fingers wrap around my wrist, stopping my movements cold.

The touch is firm, warm, startling.

I flinch, my head snapping up to look at him.

His blue eyes are locked on mine, intense and unreadable.

"Make one for me," he says, his voice low, leaving no room for argument. A command, not a request.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "And I’ll make one for you."

I stare at him, my mind blank with pure shock. The shift is so sudden it leaves me dizzy.

What...?

He didn’t want to touch this "junk" two seconds ago. He was looking at the beads like they were toxic.

Now he’s... demanding a handmade bracelet?

And offering a trade?

The logic escapes me completely. This man is an unsolvable equation written in a language I don’t speak.

But his grip on my wrist is undeniable, and the look in his eyes says he won’t let this go.