Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 186: Insecurity

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when the courier arrived, bearing a single envelope sealed with Riven’s paw print. Ronan found it adorable. He sent a letter just before he came over? He frowned, was it bad news? Because why else-

Ronan had been up already, as always, reviewing schedules and reports with an empty kind of focus. But the moment he saw that handwriting—delicate but decisive—his hands froze.

He reached out and took the letter with more force than necessary. His heart pounded as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

As he read through the letter, the frown deepened. He felt pain in his heart. He did not know what to think of it.

"I understand this is sudden, but I need to handle something alone. If it were possible to involve you, I would. But this is something I must do on my own."

The words blurred before Ronan’s eyes. His fingers clenched the letter as his throat tightened. He re-read it slowly, hoping that he had misunderstood, that somewhere between the lines was an indication that Riven would still come. That he’d changed his mind. That this was a joke.

But no. It was real. Final.

Ronan sat down heavily, the parchment still clutched in his hand. He had been anticipating this week with quiet hope, secretly counting the days. Riven had been distant lately—still charming, still playful, but somehow never quite... There.

And Ronan had convinced himself it was just timing, that this visit would smooth things over. That maybe, just maybe, they could talk. Maybe he could finally say what he meant to say.

And now Riven was choosing to be elsewhere.

Choosing to go alone.

The phrase stung more than he expected. Riven didn’t want him involved. Riven trusted him enough to ask for a favour, but not enough to include him. Not enough to confide in him. Why?

Ronan ran a hand down his face. His mind churned with questions. Had he done something wrong? Pushed too hard? Been too cold? Not enough?

The rational part of him tried to rise above it. Riven was independent. That much had always been clear. Perhaps this really was something only he could handle.

But the ache inside his chest told a different story.

A story of being unwanted. Of being set aside.

Of always falling just short.

He should have been used to it by now. Being inadequate. He strived his best to be perfect because of this feeling, yet he still falls short. Nothing he could do would ever be enough.

He stood and paced the room, the letter trembling in his hand. He knew he could go after Riven. He had the resources, the connections. He could find him within a day if he wanted to.

And part of him wanted to.

Desperately.

But the part of him that still held onto pride—onto dignity—told him not to. Told him to trust, like Riven had asked. Told him to be the anchor, even as he felt himself drifting out to sea.

He folded the letter carefully, smoothing out the crumples his hand had made. He set it on his desk and stared at it for a long moment.

Why couldn’t Riven trust him?

Was he really so unreliable?

He had been trying—trying so hard to understand Riven, to be patient, to give space where needed. But perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps he’d been too careful, too restrained.

Not enough.

A strange ache pressed against his temples, and his limbs felt sluggish, heavy. His stomach churned with nausea and exhaustion that hadn’t been there that morning. The mere thought of a mate rejecting him filled him with so much stress that he found it difficult to breathe.

By midday, his aides noticed something was wrong. Ronan, who never took sick days, who never faltered, was visibly pale. He waved off their concerns, claiming it was just a chill. But by evening, his fever had spiked.

He lay in bed, sweat dampening his brow, the letter beside him on the nightstand.

He wanted to be angry, but all he felt was small. Insecure. Useless.

Ronan prided himself on being in control. On being composed. A leader among alphas. And yet here he was, brought low by a few lines of ink and a fragile hope that had been quietly building for months.

He thought of Riven’s voice, soft and mocking. Of his sly smirks, his clever eyes. Of how easily he could get along with others.

The fever wrapped Ronan in a restless haze, and somewhere in the haze, a dream began to form—soft and slow, like drifting into a memory that never existed.

He was no longer in his bed, nor surrounded by heavy stone walls. Instead, he was beneath a wide, ancient tree in the middle of a sun-drenched meadow. The grass was tall and swayed gently with the breeze, carrying the scent of wildflowers and warm earth. Golden light filtered through the branches above. It felt very nostalgic.

He lay with his head resting on someone’s lap—familiar, warm, grounding. Slender fingers moved through his hair with unhurried care, brushing gently, over and over. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Riven.

Ronan exhaled, and with that breath, the tension left his body. He felt weightless, his muscles melting into the grass as if he belonged nowhere else but here. A soft chuckle vibrated beneath his ear, where his head pressed against Riven’s thigh.

"You’re heavier than you look," Riven teased, though there was no irritation in his voice—only fondness.

"Then push me off," Ronan murmured, eyes still closed.

"No," Riven quickly replied. "Stay."

His wolf ears were out. In the dream, it felt natural—almost like they had always been there. His alpha instincts, so tightly reined in reality, had relaxed, allowing the softer parts of himself to show. And Riven... He touched them. Gently. With the tips of his fingers, he stroked the soft fur at their base, then traced the outline with care.