The kitchen is small, warm, and oddly peaceful.
I stand at the sink with my sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in lukewarm water clouded with soap. The scent of soup still clings to the air—soft, domestic, grounding. I wash each dish slowly, unhurried, the quiet wrapping around me like a secret.
Behind me, Deniz moves the mop across the floor. I don't need to look to know he's tense. His steps are too careful, his breathing too measured, like he's afraid the wrong movement might shatter something fragile.
I rinse the last bowl and place it neatly on the rack. Straightening, I turn with a light smile.
"Finally," I say. "All done."
Deniz freezes.
His eyes lift to my face, wide and searching, like his mind is still trying to understand what he's seeing. Like this version of me doesn't belong anywhere he's ever placed Zyren Kael.
I tilt my head. "What is it?"
He hesitates, then takes a step closer. "Your… face."
I blink, genuinely confused. "What about it?"
