* * *

Even when I couldn’t find value in myself, the hero had shown faith in me.

If he couldn’t trust me anymore, what worth did I have left?

My vision dimmed.

“…Is it because I didn’t listen to you?”

I asked urgently.

“Because I acted on my own judgment, thinking I’d found a better way? Was I too arrogant?”

That would make sense.

The hero, leading us through grueling battles, would want everything to run efficiently.

If everyone ignored his plan and acted independently, it could lead to unforeseen disasters.

Perhaps I’d been too naive.

But things like that, I could fix. If the hero would trust me again, I could…

“I won’t do it again.”

If it could ease his anger.

“That’s not necessary.”

Why?

Then what’s the problem?

There was no room to argue. Suddenly, the scenery shifted.

Instead of the ruined, charred landscape, I saw a lush field from before the Demon King’s invasion.

The hero stood, facing me with the Swindlin Adventurer’s Guild headquarters in the distance.

“I have no desire to travel with someone like you.”

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

“Weak, greedy, and pathetic.”

It was true.

“Useless.”

Also true.

“And rude.”

It was all true, leaving me with nothing to say.

I was weak enough to be a hindrance in battles, yet too selfish to leave the party and fend for myself.

Worse, I had stolen the hero’s chance to reset time, driven by my cowardly desire to live.

Even knowing the hero hated it, I’d tried to make up for my mistakes by introducing new party members—an offensive gesture in its own right.

I had no defense.

So there was only one thing I could say.

“I… I’m…”

My voice trembled as I forced the words out.

The only thing I could think to say finally came to me.

“I’m sorry, Zerbin. I’m sorry…”

I didn’t know what my apology could fix, but…

“I was wrong. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

If this was all I could do, then I had to. I owed him that much.

What kind of expression was the hero making?

I stared at him, yet I couldn’t see his face.

Though it seemed he was looking at me, his gaze was unreadable, growing hazier by the second.

Was it even the hero I was looking at?

Was I really apologizing to him?

Were my words even reaching him?

Or had he already left me behind?

Because he didn’t want to hear my apology?

“…I’m sorry.”

Then, what should I do?

“That’s enough.”

A response came.

And I felt my strength leave me.

A low, resolute voice that brought comfort.

It was somewhat stiff, but its strength gave the impression it would never break, which always reassured me.

The worse the situation got, the more I felt it.

Even when our days on the run stretched endlessly or when bad news piled up, seeing the hero made me believe we’d somehow overcome it all.

The hero was humanity’s last hope and miracle, chosen by the gods.

Always standing firm, unwavering, in the face of everything…

‘Even though it must have been hard for him.’

Carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations is the hero’s destiny.

I, on the other hand, tormented myself even when no one directly criticized me.

Despite no one truly blaming me, I crumbled under the pressure, plagued by nightmares.

But the hero?

Everywhere he went, people looked at him with hopeful eyes, showering him with encouragement that was more of a burden.

When we lost battles and had to retreat, fingers pointed at him, sneering that even a hero couldn’t do better.

If it were me, I would’ve complained to the gods about the injustice and raged.

Why should I bear such suffering just because I was born strong?

Yet, the hero never ran or lashed out.

He simply did what needed to be done, quietly.

But does that mean he didn’t suffer?

No, of course not.

I, too, unconsciously leaned on him, adding to his burden.

The thought made me feel overwhelmingly sorry…

“I’m sorry.”

The words slipped out without thinking.

“It’s fine.”

Really?

Even hearing those words in a dream was comforting.

As shameful as it was, the hero’s words put me at ease, even in such a moment.

I felt something warm—a gentle sensation, as if the loneliness around me was melting away, wrapping me in a soft embrace.

It was so comforting, so tender, that I found myself wanting to burrow deeper into it.

I pressed my face against a broad chest.

Even half-asleep, I could vividly feel its firmness—solid yet with a subtle softness that made it so pleasant.

This feels… good…

Wait a minute…

Is this a chest?

Suddenly, my mind snapped awake. I’d been sleeping at home, alone.

So how was someone else holding me now?

Instead of enjoying it, shouldn’t I be alarmed about an intruder in my house?

But I was still too groggy to push away this embrace.

The arms holding me were far too warm and secure.

And though I was clearly awake, the touch felt undeniably real.

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t an illusion.

A tall, muscular man who could envelop me so completely… The hero?

That couldn’t be.

Why would the hero, who had stormed out in anger, come all the way to my house to hold me?

That’s absurd.

Surely, this is just wishful thinking.

Seriously, get a grip.

This isn’t the time to be indulging in fantasies.

‘…So soft.’

But the warmth of his chest against my cheek and the firm ridges of his abs beneath thin fabric made it impossible to concentrate.

My attempts to gather my thoughts kept crumbling.

Waking up to find an idealized, perfect man’s body holding me?

This can’t be real.

Maybe I’m still dreaming after all.

‘No… it’s not a dream.’

I felt it—a calloused, rough hand on my back.

The touch was gentle, yet its texture was unmistakable.

At first, the hand patted my back comfortingly, but soon it began to roam, slowly, almost caressingly.

Well… maybe more like groping.

Should I open my eyes now?

Was I being toyed with?

But… by who?

And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.

Even when his strong fingers brushed my waist, a spot that felt undeniably intimate, I flinched but didn’t push him off.

Wait… hold on.

Could this be Vicente?

It’s possible.

I don’t know how he got into my house, but if I’d been out of my mind and forgot to lock the door, it would make sense.

I can’t even remember if I locked it properly.

Maybe he came to check on me because I hadn’t shown up for the meal I promised to treat him to.

With Vicente’s personality, he might have barged in and demanded, “Forget the meal. Just take care of this,” knowing how things had gone unresolved last time.

And… would I?

‘…Maybe.’

I owe Vicente so much.

Last time, he stayed with me, and I slept more peacefully than usual.

I promised to repay him, yet all I did was expose him to the hero’s wrath.

I’m the one who should apologize, yet Vicente came all the way here to pull me out of my nightmares.

He didn’t ask for anything in return—not once, but twice.

If this is what he wants, maybe I should just…

Still half-asleep, I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt.

The firm, springy sensation of his chest under my hands stirred me awake bit by bit. Vicente flinched.

He didn’t think I’d wake up, did he?

What, was he planning to undress a sleeping person and… climb on top?

Would he?

* * *