The lift doors slide open with a soft chime.
Deniz steps out first. I follow, hands in my pockets, my footsteps slowing as the corridor stretches before us—narrow, warm-lit by warm yellow lights. Faintly smelling of detergent and old paint. It feels… lived in. Honest.
We stop in front of his apartment.
Deniz suddenly looks nervous.
He pats his pockets once. Twice. His movements are stiff, slightly rushed—like he's afraid the keys might vanish if he hesitates too long.
Before he finds them, an old woman walks past us, her slippers scraping softly against the floor.
Her sharp, curious eyes land on me.
Then on Deniz.
"Deniz," she says, voice bright with familiarity.
He straightens immediately, the instinctive politeness kicking in. "Hello, Granny. How are you?"
"I'm good, I'm good," she replies, then tilts her head, studying me openly. "But who is this omega?"
Omega?
I blink.
Seriously?
I roll my eyes and look away. She's old. I'll let it slide.
