From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 665: Marking Territory: A Couple’s Dispute

The next morning arrived softly, pale autumn light slipping through the curtains in thin, watery streaks. The room still carried the warmth of sleep and the faint scent of detergent, and last night’s emotions lingered in the air, unspoken but not gone.

Micah groaned into his pillow before finally dragging himself upright. His hair stuck up in several directions, eyes half-open, movements slow and heavy as if gravity had decided to double overnight. He scratched the back of his head, yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop. Then he realised the other side of the bed was empty. He blinked, head tilting in confusion. A distant chopping sound found its way to his ears. Oh... Clyde was probably cooking.

With the puzzle solved, he turned and carefully slid his good foot to the floor. His injured ankle protested the moment he put weight on it.

"Ugh," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

He hobbled toward the bathroom, one hand braced against the wall. The tiles were cold under his foot, sending a shiver up his spine. After taking care of business, he stood in front of the mirror, squinting at his reflection like he didn’t recognise the person staring back.

"Who let this zombie in here..." he mumbled around his toothbrush.

Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as he brushed, shoulders slumped, eyelids drooping. Water splashed as he washed his face, droplets clinging to his lashes. He pushed his wet hair back and stared again, more awake now. Nope, still a zombie. Yeah, he needed a shower.

Then, he removed the brace so it wouldn’t get wet.

He leaned heavily on the wall as he stepped under the shower spray. Warm water cascaded down his back, steam filling the small space. He tipped his head back, letting the heat soak into stiff muscles, trying not to think about anything except the soothing rush of water.

Still... memories from last night kept sneaking in.

Clyde’s voice.

Clyde’s arms around him.

Clyde’s mouth against his neck.

Micah shut his eyes tightly. "Focus on soap. Just soap."

By the time he came out, hair damp and skin flushed pink from heat, he felt more human.

And then he met Clyde’s disapproving eyes.

Clyde stood near the bed, already dressed in a simple shirt and dark pants, hair slightly messy like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His arms were crossed, brows drawn together.

"What?" Micah asked defensively, adjusting the bathrobe tighter around himself.

"You should’ve called me," Clyde said, tone low but firm. "What if you slipped?"

Micah waved a hand dismissively. "I’m not clumsy. I leaned on the wall."

That was only half true. The other half was that he’d been too shy to ask. After last night, every touch from Clyde felt different. Charged. Heavy. Like his skin had become too aware.

"Sit down," Clyde said, already moving closer. "Let me dry your hair and put the new brace on your ankle."

Micah didn’t argue. He hopped toward the bed and sat, robe falling loosely around his knees.

Clyde crouched in front of him, holding up a black orthopedic boot. "This one arrived last night. I asked Dr Roger for a more comfortable brace since you need to go to uni and the hospital."

Micah stared at it, conflicted. It looked bulky. Serious. Like his injury had been upgraded from "minor inconvenience" to "official problem."

He sighed. "Fine. Do your thing."

Clyde’s fingers slid around his ankle, careful, warm.

Micah sucked in a sharp breath. The touch wasn’t painful. It was just... too noticeable. A line of sensation travelled from his foot straight up his spine.

Clyde paused immediately. "Does it hurt?" He looked up, concern clear.

Micah shook his head quickly, biting the inside of his cheek hard. He forced his face neutral, but the heat creeping into his ears betrayed him.

Clyde noticed. Of course, he noticed. But this time, he didn’t tease. He fastened the straps efficiently, movements professional and calm. Then he stood and grabbed the hair dryer.

Warm air hummed as he ran his fingers through Micah’s damp hair, lifting strands gently, combing them through with his hand.

Micah’s breath caught. He pulled the bathrobe tighter in front of himself, subtly adjusting the robe in his lap. Thank God he had underwear on. Otherwise, this would have turned into a situation he could not explain with dignity. He shifted his leg, bending and straightening it, trying to distract himself.

Inside he was yelling at himself: What is wrong with you? Are you in heat or something?

The dryer clicked off.

"Done," Clyde said softly. "Do you need help dressing too?"

Micah waved him off too quickly. "Nah. I’m good. Thanks."

What a joke. As if he’d survive more of those hands on him.

Clyde gave him a long look but nodded and stepped out. The door clicked shut.

Micah immediately facepalmed. "Stupid horny body," he groaned.

He shuffled to the walk-in closet, pulling on comfy pants and a hoodie. He dressed up carefully.

Then he stood in front of the mirror, absentmindedly rubbing a hand over his hair while studying his reflection. His skin still carried a faint flush from the shower, lashes clumped slightly, eyes a little puffy from sleep. He leaned closer, squinting as if inspecting flaws only he could see.

Then his gaze drifted lower. And stopped.

"...Son of a bitch!" he barked, the curse bursting out loud and sharp in the quiet room.

His hand flew to the collar of his hoodie. He tugged it down, fabric stretching to reveal the side of his neck. A dark, unmistakable bruise bloomed there. It was bold, obvious, and impossible to explain away as anything innocent.

Micah stared at it in disbelief, then outrage, then pure indignation. "You have got to be kidding me..."

The bedroom door opened behind him.

"What’s up? I heard a loud..." Clyde didn’t get to finish.

Micah spun around and charged.

There was no hesitation, no warning, just a sudden burst of energy as he lunged like an offended bull spotting red, already forgetting the pain in his ankle. He slammed into Clyde, shoving him backward until his shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud.

Clyde reacted on instinct, hands flying to Micah’s waist to steady him, more worried about his injured ankle than the attack itself. "Hey! Careful!"

Too late. Micah grabbed the front of Clyde’s shirt and pulled himself up, then latched onto his ear without mercy.

Clyde jolted hard. A startled sound broke free from his throat before he could swallow it down.

Micah froze for half a second, eyes flicking up in surprise.

Oh.That reaction. Curiosity sparked.

He bit again, slower this time, teeth grazing the soft curve of Clyde’s earlobe before pressing lightly against the small cartilage above it.

"Hh...Micah..." Clyde sucked in a sharp breath, voice tight, strained in a way that was very different from pain.

Micah pressed closer, chest brushing Clyde’s, the warmth of his freshly showered skin seeping through layers of fabric. His hair still smelled faintly of shampoo, clean, soft, the scent drifting straight into Clyde’s senses and doing nothing to help the situation.

Clyde’s hands tightened around Micah’s waist, fingers flexing. He tried to put space between their hips, but Micah stubbornly stayed close, like he had discovered a fascinating new toy and had no intention of letting go.

He nibbled again, slower, experimenting. Testing.

Clyde’s breath grew uneven.

Micah’s lips brushed along the shell of his ear, and then, with deliberate mischief, his tongue traced lightly along the sensitive edge.

That was the last straw. Clyde felt he would make a fool out of himself if this continued.

"Stop it," he said hoarsely, hands sliding up to Micah’s shoulders. He pulled him back just enough to break contact, though his fingers lingered longer than necessary.

He stared at Micah, stunned and flushed, chest rising and falling too fast. His cheeks were tinted pink, eyes darker than before, pupils blown wide.

"What was that?" he asked breathlessly, voice rough.

Micah licked his lips slowly, eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. "Hmm. Payback?" He tilted his head, expression far too innocent to be real.

Clyde blinked. "Enlighten me. Payback for what?"

Micah grabbed his hoodie collar again and yanked it down, exposing the bruise on his neck. "This!" he accused. "How am I supposed to go to campus like this? Or the hospital? Do you know how obvious this is? You have to pay too!"

Clyde lifted a hand to his ear, fingers brushing the slightly damp skin there, as if only just realising how sensitive that spot was. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to breathe normally.

"...I see," he muttered.

Micah crossed his arms, satisfied. "Let’s see how you keep a straight face at work today. Good luck explaining why you look like that."

Clyde closed his eyes briefly and massaged his temple, clearly trying to hold onto the last scraps of composure. "Little ancestor," he muttered under his breath. Then, more firmly, "Go eat your breakfast."

Micah grinned, bright and unrepentant. "Yes, sir."

He limped off, actually whistling.

Clyde remained where he was for a moment, staring at the doorway like a man who had just walked into a battlefield unarmed.

"...I’m not surviving today," he sighed.

Then he pushed off the wall and headed toward the bathroom, steps stiff, posture just a little too controlled to be natural.