From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 685: I cannot Even Pierce Thin Paper

The sky had begun to dim, not yet fully dark but deepening from white to pale indigo. Smoke rose from the chimneys in soft spirals, dissolving into the cold air. Somewhere below, laughter floated up faintly through the house’s wooden frame.

Darcy stood near the window. Micah lay across the bed behind him.

Darcy looked at Micah with quiet caution. It wasn’t guilt sitting in his chest. He had long since made peace with what had happened, or at least, he had convinced himself he had. And it wasn’t anger either. The anger had burned hot once, in other lifetimes, in other endings. What remained now was something colder.

But that was exactly why he didn’t want to open the door Micah had just nudged. Talking about the past was never just talking.

It meant peeling back layers. It meant naming things that had been buried on purpose. It meant looking at each other and acknowledging the ugly parts, the resentment, the unfairness, the choices that could never be undone.

And tonight, in this quiet room surrounded by snow and warmth and the distant laughter of family, Darcy didn’t want to drag ghosts into the light. He wanted that stillness to remain.

Behind him, the mattress shifted.

Micah turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He rested his head on his palm and watched Darcy with a faint, unreadable smile.

Darcy’s eyes flicked toward his hazel eyes despite himself. Those eyes always caught him off guard. In the dim winter light filtering through the window, they seemed warmer than the room itself. Gold and green threaded together, bright and observant.

Darcy felt his nerves tighten. The fine hairs at the back of his neck prickled, as though some instinct were warning him that he had been seen through. As if Micah were waiting for Darcy to slip.

Darcy opened his mouth. The words hovered on the tips of his tongue. He almost said it. Almost admitted that he remembered everything. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. The silence between them grew heavy.

He blinked first. Turning his head away, he let his gaze drift back to the mountains outside the window, their white slopes fading into early dusk.

"I’ll try," he said quietly.

It was an answer to Micah’s earlier comment, not to let memories from another life cloud his judgment of the Palmer family.

Micah watched him in silence. From where he lay, Darcy’s figure was framed by the pale winter landscape. His dark hair and coat formed a stark contrast against the endless white. The light from outside traced his outline in silver, separating him from the room. For a fleeting moment, Micah felt as if Darcy did not belong in this house. Not to this warmth. Not to this noise. As if he were a traveller who might vanish the moment the snowstorm shifted.

There was something in the way he held himself, straight, composed, slightly apart, that made Micah’s chest tighten.

He looked lonely.

Not in an obvious way. Not the kind of loneliness that demanded comfort. But the quieter kind. The kind that existed even in a crowded room. As if nothing had ever truly anchored him. Micah’s heart trembled.

Before he could second-guess himself, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. In two quick steps, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Darcy from behind.

The movement was sudden. Darcy stiffened immediately. His shoulders tensed under Micah’s arms, breath catching for half a second. Surprise flashed across his face when he glanced sideways, confusion flickering in his eyes.

But he didn’t pull away. Slowly, gradually, the tension left his body. His back eased against Micah’s chest. His hands remained loosely at his sides.

Micah’s hold tightened slightly, not possessive, not demanding. Just steady.

It was Warm. Darcy looked forward again. At the mountains. At the snow.

Neither of them spoke.

The past lingered between them like a closed book on a table. It was visible, heavy, and untouched. They stayed like that for several long seconds. Maybe longer.

Until a loud, violent knock rattled the door.

"Nephew! My dear nephew!" The explosive yell shattered the fragile stillness.

Both of them separated at once. Micah stepped back quickly, smoothing his expression into something light and amused. Darcy straightened, adjusting his sleeves as if nothing had happened.

The door swung open without waiting for permission.

Edmund stood there, breath puffing slightly in the cold air he had let in from the hallway, eyes bright with exaggerated urgency.

He paused when he saw them standing close together, but brushed the thought aside.

"I have a favour to ask!" he announced dramatically.

Micah crossed his arms and sat on the bed. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Uncle," he drawled, "do you mean Darcy or me?"

Edmund froze. His eyes darted between them. Right. He now had two adult nephews. His confident grin faltered into something much less certain. For the first time in his life, he seemed genuinely flustered.

Darcy spared him.

"I’ll freshen up," Darcy said smoothly, already moving toward the bathroom. "You two talk."

He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Edmund exhaled in obvious relief. "That one," he muttered under his breath, "gives me chills."

Micah raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing!" Edmund waved it off and flopped dramatically onto the bed beside Micah. "Okay, listen," he said, leaning closer. "Remember the girl I met at your birthday party? Navy dress. Sharp eyes. Looked like she could run a company and ruin a man at the same time?"

Micah pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

"I asked around," Edmund continued eagerly. "She’s perfect. Capable. Independent. Elegant. Can you give me her contact number?"

Micah let out a long breath. "Look... As I told you before, she’s out of your league. For God’s sake, she is a Du Pont! Why are you still hung up on her? And you live here. She lives across the country. What’s your plan? Wave at her through a telescope?"

Edmund scooted closer and slung an arm around Micah’s shoulder. "I was ready to give up," he admitted. "But then a friend told me the Ramsy family is close with the Du Ponts. And aren’t you friends with Emile Collins? The patriarch’s nephew?"

He poked Micah’s side. "Just introduce us. Nothing else! Who knows? Maybe I’ll become the Du Ponts’ favourite son-in-law."

Micah scoffed. "Keep dreaming."

"Micah," Edmund said, suddenly switching to a syrupy tone, clinging tighter, "my dear lovely nephew. My little ancestor. My family’s only hope."

Micah visibly shuddered. "Stop talking," he said through clenched teeth. "I’ll ask. Get off me." He shoved Edmund away.

Edmund beamed triumphantly and stood. "You promised! I’ll wait for good news."

He reached the door, then paused. "Right. Mum said supper’s ready."

Micah waved him off without looking.

The door shut. Silence returned.

Micah’s smile faded. His eyes shifted toward the bathroom door. His earlier words had not been casual. They had been deliberate. A probe. A careful test to see how Darcy would react to the mention of the past.

And he had felt it, that subtle stiffening, that quiet withdrawal.

Micah’s chest grew heavy. He looked down at his hands. Long fingers. The watch on his left wrist. The wooden prayer beads wrapped around his right. A hollow, self-mocking laugh slipped out. He had screwed up again. Pushed too far. He dragged both hands over his face.

Why couldn’t he ever say things properly?

The bathroom door opened. Darcy stepped out, composed as always. His gaze paused on Micah for the briefest moment. Then moved away. He crossed to his bag, took out several small gifts, and tucked them under his arm. Without a word, he walked past Micah and left the room.

Micah watched the door close. He felt it clearly now. Darcy’s earlier hesitation, the soft crack in his composure, had sealed over. Whatever wavering had existed was gone. Micah pressed his lips together.

"Sorry, Grandma..." he whispered under his breath. He thought of Zhou Ruyan, her expectations, her quiet belief that he would have the courage to fix what he had broken.

"It seems I’m too scared to even apologise," he murmured. "I can’t even pierce thin paper."

Coward. The word echoed in his head.

The evening passed in warmth and noise.

Plates of steaming food covered the table. Laughter rose and fell in waves. Stories were told and retold. Edmund exaggerated details until someone smacked his arm. The children argued loudly before dissolving into giggles.

Micah smiled when spoken to. He responded when asked. But inside, the heaviness remained.

Later, when the younger children were sent upstairs and the fire burned lower in the hearth, Uncle Edgar approached him with a glass of amber liquid.

"Here," Edgar said. "Keeps you warm."

Micah accepted it. He took a sip. The ginger-spiced wine burned pleasantly down his throat, spreading heat through his chest.

Edgar leaned beside him, glancing toward the living room where Ida was deep in conversation with Darcy.

"I spoke to Elina before," Edgar said quietly. "She mentioned he didn’t want anything to do with the Ramsys. I assumed he’d be difficult."

Micah followed his gaze. Darcy was listening attentively, nodding slightly, expression calm.

"But he’s been gentle," Edgar continued. "Even with Edmund’s slip-ups."

Micah smiled faintly. "Of course he is. His aversion to the Ramsys... it wasn’t really his fault. It came from how they treated him. They gave him a cold shoulder first."

Edgar’s eyebrow lifted. "Oh... Protective?"

Micah’s fingers tightened around the glass. "I owe him," he said softly. "Stealing a life... No one could forgive something like that. But he never treated me badly. Never held me accountable."

Edgar studied him. "What surprises me," he said slowly, "is your attitude toward the Ramsys. I’ve never heard you speak poorly of them before."

Micah let out a quiet, self-mocking breath. The shadows of past lives still clung to him. Old wounds. Old bitterness. "I’m stating facts," he said.

Edgar drained his glass and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "I don’t know what happened these past months," he said. "But you have us. If you think you were wronged, come to us. We’ll back you." He paused. "My sister cares too much about appearances. Years of mockery hardened her. She loves you both. Sometimes her actions are just her way of protecting you from the malice she once faced."

Micah stared into his glass. "I know, Uncle," he whispered.

He knew. But knowing didn’t untie the knot in his chest. Perhaps one day he would lay everything bare. Face the past without flinching. Speak the apology he was too afraid to say. Perhaps then he would finally be free.