Ti slips away in Mr. David’s room, asured in shared stories and easy laughter. The initial awkwardness has lted completely.
He tells about Deniz’s childhood—the ti he cried for an hour over a dropped ice cream, the way he used to line up his toy cars with military precision.
A genuine, unguarded smile stays on my lips.
I feel... light.
Happy in a way that has nothing to do with sches or survival.
"Son, do you know," Mr. David says, his eyes twinkling, "when Deniz was about ten, I fell sick. That little boy tried to cook soup for ."
He chuckles, the mory warm.
"He made a surprisingly decent broth. And a spectacular ss. Flour everywhere. Looked like a ghost had exploded in my kitchen."
I laugh, the image clear in my mind: serious, small Deniz, determined and covered in white powder.
It’s a perfect, precious picture.
The mont is broken by the soft click of the door opening.
We both turn. Deniz stands in the doorway, a paper coffee cup in his hand.
His eyes sweep the scene—his father and , sitting close on the edge of the bed, the air still vibrating with shared amusent.
He scans it all silently, his expression unreadable.
He walks in and hands the coffee to his father.
"I’m sorry for the wait, Dad. The canteen staff were tied up."
Mr. David smiles, patting my shoulder again. "It’s fine. Mr. Kael has been giving excellent company."
"Please," I interject, warmth in my voice. "Call Zyren. It feels better."
"Okay, okay," Mr. David acquiesces with a grin.
"But then you should call Uncle. ’Mr. David’ makes feel like a stranger."
I smile.
"I will... Uncle."
Mr. David’s gaze shifts to his son.
"Now, you should go."
Deniz blinks. "But, Dad... Tonight I’m staying here with you."
Mr. David waves a dismissive hand.
"Deniz, I’m perfectly okay. You should go ho. I’m already sleepy—having you here will just keep awake."
He says it with quiet finality.
Deniz’s face is a picture of confusion. "Dad... why are you saying this? Weren’t you the one who wanted to stay here?"
"Ahh, yes, I did," Mr. David says, not missing a beat.
"Now we’ve t, it’s enough. Don’t cling to your old man, Deniz. You’re not a child anymore. Be an adult."
His tone is light, but the ssage is unmistakable.
I stand up, sensing the delicate nudge for what it is.
"You should rest, Mr.—I an, Uncle."
He smiles up at . "Yes, I will. You two, go quickly. Before the snow gets worse."
Deniz just stares.
"Dad..."
Before he can formulate another protest, I reach out and take Deniz’s hand, lacing my fingers firmly with his.
He stiffens, his eyes flying to mine, wide with shock.
I give Mr. David one last, soft, grateful smile.
"Good night."
"Good night," he replies, his eyes crinkling with knowing warmth.
I turn to Deniz, whose gaze is darting between our joined hands and my face.
"Let’s go," I say, my voice quiet but leaving no room for argunt.
"But—"
I don’t listen. I just start walking, gently pulling him along with . After a second of stunned resistance, he follows, silent and confused in my wake.
A new, determined smile touches my lips as we step into the hallway.
Mr. David’s words echo in my mind, clear as a bell:
You should talk.
Yes. He’s right. No more silence.
No more shy glances and burning cheeks and terrified guessing gas.
The ti for quiet is over.
Now it’s ti to talk.
Freely.
With my shy Deniz.
We walk out of the hospital’s automatic doors and into a world transford. Snow falls in fat, silent flakes, painting the night in soft, forgiving white.
Deniz’s hand is still in mine, a warm, anchoring point in the cold.
My driver spots us imdiately, hurrying forward with quick, efficient steps. He opens a large black umbrella, holding it over us like a shield.
"Young Master, we should return. The roads may block soon with this heavy snow."
I take the umbrella handle from him.
"You may go."
"Young Master, but—"
I et his eyes. He swallows his protest, gives a shallow, obedient bow, and retreats.
Deniz is still silent beside , his face lowered, a portrait of beautiful, troubled confusion.
I start walking, pulling him gently along, the umbrella creating a small, private world for just the two of us.
The street is a blank canvas of white, our footprints the first marks upon it.
His voice, when it cos, is so quiet it’s almost lost in the hush of falling snow.
"You should go."
I don’t look at him. I don’t answer. I just keep walking, leading him toward a destination he doesn’t know.
A destination I, myself, am only discovering step by snow-muffled step.
After a long, silent trek, we stop.
Before us is a small, hidden garden, a secret tucked between sleeping buildings. It’s buried under a pristine blanket of snow, but within it, defiant and breathtaking, winter jasmine blooms.
Delicate yellow stars against the pure white, their fragrance a cold, sweet whisper in the air.
I hand the umbrella to Deniz. He takes it automatically, his brow furrowed.
"Zyren, why are we here? You’ll catch cold again."
I don’t listen. I walk into the garden, my shoes sinking into the deep powder. I bend and carefully pluck a single, perfect jasmine bloom.
I brush away the clinging snow with my thumb, the gesture tender, almost reverent.
The petals are cold and silken against my skin.
I turn and walk back to him. He stands under the umbrella, utterly confused, watching .
Then, I kneel.
My knees sink into the deep, cold snow with a soft crunch. The chill seeps through my trousers instantly, a sharp, grounding shock.
Deniz’s eyes fly wide.
"Zyren! What are you—? Please, stand up!"
I stay where I am.
I lift the winter jasmine, offering it to him like the most precious of vows.
The yellow flower is a tiny sun in the monochro night.
Our eyes lock.
His are dark pools of shock and dawning, tremulous understanding. Mine, I hope, hold only truth.
The world narrows to this circle under the umbrella, to the falling snow, to his face, to the flower between us.
My voice, when it cos, is soft.
Cleared of all pretense, all gas, all fear.
It is simply, honestly, .
"Deniz," I whisper, the na a cloud of warmth in the frozen air.
"I love you."
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