The dinner table is small, intimate, bathed in warm golden light from the lamp above. The food spreads between us—steaming rice, colorful vegetables, tender meat glazed in something that smells like heaven.
Deniz sits across from me, eating with quiet, methodical calm.
I stare at my plate.
I pick up my fork. I stab a piece of meat. I watch the juices pool beneath it. It smells incredible. It probably is incredible.
I can't swallow.
I move the food around my plate. Circle. Square. Triangle. Patterns that mean nothing. My appetite didn't just vanish—it was murdered by a single cream-colored card and the name I didn't get to read.
"Zyren."
I flinch. Look up.
Deniz has stopped eating. His fork rests beside his plate. His dark eyes are fixed on me, soft but searching.
"Do you not like it?" His voice is quiet. Careful.
"The dinner?"
I blink, force my face into something normal. "No. It's not that." I look down at the massacred arrangement on my plate.
