I’m slumped at my desk, elbows propped, chin resting lazily in my hands. It’s a posture of pure, indulgent idleness. Across from , Deniz sits, the very picture of professional focus. His head is bent over a file, his brow slightly furrowed behind his glasses.
The work is a lie, of course—a flimsy, transparent excuse I fabricated just to have him here, in my space, within reach.
My eyes are fixed on him, watching with a shaless, rapt attention that would get anyone else fired.
A soft, besotted smile plays on my lips.
The glasses... he looks even sexier in them.
I trace the line of his jaw with my gaze, the sweep of his lashes, the way his lips move silently as he reads.
My stare inevitably drops, landing on his mouth.
Soft.
A pale, tempting pink.
I really, really want to kiss him.
The urge is a physical ache.
And his neck, the line of his throat where his pulse flutters just beneath the skin...
My thoughts are spiraling into dangerous, warm territory when his head suddenly snaps up.
Our eyes lock.
I flinch, yanking my gaze away as if burned, my cheeks instantly flooding with heat.
I stare down at the polished wood of my desk.
"Sir... are you alright?"
His voice is laced with genuine concern.
I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak. "Yes..."
The word cos out as a faint, choked whisper.
God, Neon, you’re so shaless.
What are you thinking?
But he’s already moving. He stands up quickly, his professional mask cracking into open worry.
"Why is your face so red?" He rounds the desk, his steps quick.
I look up at him, feigning confusion as he closes in. He reaches out, his touch feather-light and infinitely gentle as he presses the back of his fingers first to my temple, then to my flaming cheek.
His brow furrows deeper. "Did your fever co back?"
I just stare at him, drinking in the worry etched on his beautiful face.
He’s concerned. For .
And then, the idea sparks—bright, irresistible, and utterly reckless.
I blink, widening my eyes into pools of innocent distress. My face is still cradled between his palms.
"Deniz..." I murmur, letting my voice go weak.
"I feel... a little dizzy."
His worry intensifies.
"Did you eat your dicine? I should call the doctor—"
He starts to turn, to pull away and reach for the phone.
No.
My hand shoots out, closing around his wrist. I don’t pull—I push, a firm, sudden pressure that yanks him off balance.
His eyes fly wide with surprise. He stumbles, falling forward—not onto the floor, but onto .
His chest collides with mine, a solid, warm weight. In the sa motion, my arm slides around his waist, anchoring him there.
Our faces are inches apart. His breath hitches. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my own.
The scent of clean rose and warm skin fills my senses.
"Just stay with ," I whisper, the words a warm brush against his skin.
His cheeks bloom a deep, glorious red. He blinks, utterly disard, nervous.
"I—"
"Please."
It’s a single, soft plea. I see the conflict in his dark eyes—duty warring with the shock of our proximity.
And then, the world shatters.
THUD...
The office door swings open without a knock, without warning.
I jerk my head toward the sound.
Angel stands in the doorway, clutching a coffee cup, his face a perfect portrait of stunned disbelief.
His eyes take in the scene in a single, devastating snapshot: Deniz sprawled across my lap, my arm possessively around his waist, our faces close enough to share breath.
Ti stops for a fractured second.
Deniz reacts first. With a gasp that’s pure panic, he shoves himself back from as if electrocuted.
He scrambles to his feet, fumbling with his glasses, his face a masterpiece of mortified scarlet.
"I—I should go," he stamrs, the words tripping over each other.
He doesn’t look at . He doesn’t look at Angel.
He just turns and flees, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, final click, leaving behind a silence ringing with interrupted desire and stunned accusation.
Angel sits across from . I can’t et his eyes. My gaze is fixed on my own hands, knotted together in a nervous fight on my lap.
My face is still a furnace of embarrassnt and lingering, flustered heat.
I should have locked the door. God, this is so...
"Zyren."
I flinch, then slowly lift my head.
"Yes?"
"Are you okay?" His voice is gentle, but there’s a carefulness to it.
I nod, the movent too quick.
"Yes. I’m fine."
"I’m sorry," he says, his beautiful face etched with regret.
"I shouldn’t have co in like that. I should have knocked."
"No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "You don’t need to apologize. It’s... it’s okay."
The lie is weak, but the sentint is real.
He didn’t do anything wrong.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks down, his own hands resting quietly in his lap.
The silence stretches, thoughtful and heavy. He’s not just sitting; he’s processing. Weighing.
Then, he speaks again, his voice softer. "Zyren."
"Yes?"
He still doesn’t look up. His question is a quiet, deliberate release into the space between us.
"Do you like him?"
My breath catches. I knew this question would co. I dreaded it, yet part of had been waiting for it.
A whirlwind of emotions flickers across my face.
I stay silent for a long mont, just staring at him—my angel, my one anchor of real, unconditional care in this chaotic world.
He is my family, in every fiber of my being.
And family deserves honesty.
I take a slow, deep breath, steadying the frantic beat of my heart.
A soft, genuine smile finally finds its way to my lips—not one of seduction or scheming, but one of vulnerable honesty.
I softly say, "Angel."
He slowly lifts his gaze, his eyes locking with mine.
A shy, honest smile touches my lips.
"I have a crush on him."
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