The car hums softly beneath us, heater fighting back the winter chill that presses against the windows.
Deniz's fingers are tangled with mine on the seat between us—gentle, warm, holding on like he doesn't want to let go either.
I glance at him. His dark eyes are fixed on the road ahead, watching the blur of snow-dusted streets slide past. The morning light catches the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lashes.
Beautiful. Always beautiful.
The car slows, then stops. The hospital looms outside, familiar and sterile.
Deniz reaches for the door handle. He starts to move.
I don't let go of his hand.
He blinks, turning back to me, confusion softening his features.
"Zyren?"
I stare at him. No words. Just my eyes, wide and soft, trying to pour everything into that single look:
Don't leave me.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he shifts closer. His free hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek, featherlight. His touch lingers, warm against my skin.
"What happened?" he asks quietly.
