Dinner leaves a soft warmth behind—on my tongue, in my chest.
Deniz washes the dishes in the kitchen, water running, quiet clinks of porcelain filling the apartment. I wander without a destination, letting my eyes roam.
Then I see them.
Family photos line the wall.
I stop.
My gaze lingers on the first frame—Deniz as a child, small in his school uniform, smile shy and crooked. Too cute. A soft smile slips onto my lips without permission. The next photo—he's younger, sitting at a table, cheeks full, eating a lollipop with both hands like it's treasure. Warm. Gentle. Loved.
You can see it in the photos.
He grew up wrapped in care.
An Omega father's warmth—quiet, steady, patient.
My eyes move slowly, drinking in the years, until a familiar voice breaks the stillness.
"Did something happen…?"
I blink and turn. Deniz stands behind me, hands still damp, watching my face like he's afraid of what he might find there.
"Nothing," I say softly.
