Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 162: Night And Moon—Meant For Each Other

The corridor stretches before us, white and sterile, slling faintly of antiseptic. I barely notice any of it. All I can feel is the warmth of his palm against mine, the slight pressure of his grip, the way he holds like I’m sothing precious.

The silver rings on our fingers catch the fluorescent light, winking with every step. Small declarations of everything we’ve beco. Evidence of promises made in quiet monts.

A soft smile plays on my lips, but beneath it, my heart hamrs against my ribs. My palms are sweating. My feet feel heavy, each step an effort.

We stop in front of Mr. David’s room. Deniz’s hand reaches for the handle.

"Deniz."

He turns to imdiately, his dark eyes soft and questioning.

"What is it?"

I bite my lower lip, the words tumbling out in a rush before I can stop them.

"Please—look at . From head to toe. Do I look perfect? Is everything okay? My hair, my clothes, my—"

He stops with a gentle hand on my arm, his touch warm through the fabric of my sleeve.

"Zyren. Why are you asking this?"

"I’m just..."

I look down at our joined hands, at the way his thumb traces small circles on my skin.

"Nervous."

The admission feels small, childish, unworthy of soone who faces boardrooms and business rivals without flinching.

A soft smile spreads across his lips, warm and fond and infinitely patient. "No matter what you wear, you always look perfect." He tilts his head, catching my eyes.

"Beautiful."

I look down at the floor, at the polished linoleum, at anything but his gaze.

"Deniz, it’s not—"

He squeezes my cheek gently, and I look up, startled. My eyes must be wide as a child’s on their first day of school, lost and seeking reassurance.

"You’ve already t my dad," he says gently.

"So why are you nervous now?"

He tilts his head, studying with those dark eyes that see everything. "Rember? The first ti he saw you, he called you beautiful. You two got along so well. He adores you."

A pause.

"So why the hesitation?"

"I don’t know." The words are barely a whisper.

"I don’t know why I’m like this. I just... I want him to approve. I want him to see I’m good enough for you. That I—"

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek, cutting off the spiral. His lips linger for a mont, warm and reassuring.

"I’m with you." His eyes hold mine, steady and sure, an anchor in my storm of doubts.

"So stop feeling nervous." A small smile.

"Let’s go."

I nod, drawing strength from his presence, from the solid warmth of him beside . He opens the door, and we step inside together.

Mr. David sits on his bed, a book open in his lap, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks up as we enter, and his face transforms—a bright, genuine smile spreading across his weathered features, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Deniz! Zyren!"

I bow politely, offering the bouquet of white roses I’ve been clutching like a lifeline.

"Good evening, Uncle David. These are for you."

He accepts the flowers with obvious delight, bringing them to his face and inhaling deeply. His eyes close for a mont, savoring the scent.

"Ahh, son, they’re beautiful. Truly beautiful." He opens his eyes and looks at with such warmth that sothing loosens in my chest.

"Thank you."

I smile, warmth spreading through , chasing away the last of my nerves.

"I’m happy you like them."

Deniz and I settle onto the small couch near his bed, our thighs pressing together, our hands never separating. The cushions are worn but comfortable, and the tension slowly leaves my shoulders.

"How’s your health now?" I ask.

Mr. David’s smile widens. "I’m doing really well, actually. Better than I have in months." He sets the roses aside carefully, treating them like treasure.

"I’ve made so friends here, so I’m enjoying myself. We play cards in the evenings. An old man here thinks he’s a chess master, but I’ve beaten him three tis already."

Deniz raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

"So that’s why you’ve been ignoring my calls?"

Mr. David waves a hand dramatically, the gesture almost theatrical. "Ah, Deniz, you’re so clingy. Calling constantly, checking on again and again." He shakes his head, but his eyes are warm.

"Give so space! I’m spending ti with my friends. You’re not a kid anymore."

Deniz laughs, the sound light and warm, filling the small room.

"Fine, fine. I’ll try to call less."

"You’ll try nothing," Mr. David chuckles.

"You’ll call just as much, and I’ll pretend to be annoyed."

His gaze shifts to , and his expression softens further. He looks at us—really looks—and I feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with my appearance or my status.

Deniz takes a breath. I feel it in the way his chest rises, in the slight tightening of his fingers around mine.

"Dad." His voice is steady, but I can feel the slight tremor in his hand.

"We’re here to tell you sothing."

Mr. David’s eyes drop to our joined hands, to the silver rings glinting on our fingers. Evidence of everything we’ve beco. His gaze lingers there for a long mont.

Deniz gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

"Dad, we’re in a relationship."

Silence.

The room seems to hold its breath. Mr. David doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. His eyes remain fixed on our hands, on the rings, on the proof of our love written in silver and skin.

My own smile falters. The warmth in my chest begins to cool, replaced by sothing cold and creeping.

What if he doesn’t approve? What if he—

"Dad?" Deniz’s voice is uncertain now, a crack in his composure.

Mr. David’s voice, when it cos, is serious. Grave, even.

"I’m curious about one thing."

We both go still. Frozen. Waiting.

He looks up at our faces, and sothing flickers in his eyes—not anger, not disapproval, sothing else entirely. Sothing I can’t quite na.

"Who’s the husband," he asks slowly, deliberately, "and who’s the wife?"

For a mont, the world stops.

Then Mr. David’s face cracks, and he bursts into laughter—bright and warm and completely genuine, filling every corner of the room.

My cheeks ignite, burning red. Deniz looks down at his lap, his own face flushing to the tips of his ears.

Mr. David is still laughing, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I’m sorry, sons, I’m just kidding." He chuckles, catching his breath.

"But I was curious. Zyren is an Alpha, after all. I had to ask."

"Dad," Deniz murmurs, his voice weak with embarrassnt.

"What are you saying?"

Mr. David takes a deep breath, his laughter subsiding into sothing softer, more tender. His eyes glisten as he looks at us.

"It’s not news to , you know." His voice is gentle now, full of sothing that makes my chest ache.

"I’ve known from the start that you two like each other. Probably before you knew yourselves."

Deniz’s eyes widen. "You knew?"

Mr. David nods, and I notice his eyes are shining—wet with tears he’s trying to hold back. He wipes the corner of his eye with a thumb, a small, almost embarrassed gesture.

"I’m so happy for both of you."

His voice cracks slightly, the emotion breaking through.

"When I see you together, you look like night and moon—ant for each other." He reaches out and places a hand over ours, warm and solid.

"I pray you stay like this always. Through everything. My blessings are always with you."

I smile, warmth flooding back through tenfold, chasing away every last shadow of doubt. My eyes sting, just slightly.

"Thank you, Uncle David."

His expression shifts suddenly, turning mock-stern. "Ehh, son." He raises an eyebrow.

"Shouldn’t you call Dad now?"

I hesitate for just a mont, the word catching in my throat. Then it cos easily, naturally, like it was always waiting to be said.

"Dad."

He beams, his whole face lighting up.

"Good. That’s very good."

Deniz looks at , smiling softly. I return the smile, and in that mont, everything feels exactly right.

Mr. David shakes his head with a fond smile.

"Ah, young love," he says. "You two are making this old man jealous."

Deniz laughs.

"You’re the one who told to find soone good."

"And you did," Mr. David says warmly.

A mont later, Mr. David’s expression shifts.

Sothing flickers in his eyes—mory, perhaps, or concern.

"Ah, Deniz."

His voice is different now. Careful. "I rember sothing. Your teacher, Mr. Bryan, ca to visit today."

Deniz’s smile fades. Instantly.