The room is thick—not just with Moon’s amber wood pheromones, but with sothing else.
Sothing heavier.
The silence between the three of us presses against my skin, warm and suffocating, and I don’t know what to do with it. Should I break it? Should I let it stretch? Maybe staying quiet is better. Maybe silence is safer than whatever words might tumble out if I open my mouth.
Moon’s face is unreadable. His eyes are fixed on the lilies on the bedside table—white and pale, the ones Deniz brought. He hasn’t looked at Deniz since the greeting that went unanswered. He hasn’t said a word.
His hands rest on the blanket, still, his fingers curled slightly, as if holding onto sothing that isn’t there anymore.
Deniz sits beside on the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. I can feel his warmth through the fabric of his shirt, the familiar weight of his presence.
The bag is still in his hand, fingers curled around the handle like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes are down, fixed on his lap—on his hands, on sowhere I can’t reach.
The soft smile he wore when he walked in has faded completely, replaced by sothing quieter. Sothing that makes my chest ache.
He’s hurt.
I can see it in the way his shoulders curve inward, in the way he won’t look up, in the way his breath cos just a little too carefully.
Moon didn’t respond to his greeting. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just stared at the flowers like they were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
I glance at Deniz.
I don’t like seeing him like this—don’t like the way his warmth dims when soone is cold to him, the way he absorbs the silence like it’s his fault.
My hand reaches for his, fingers sliding between his. He blinks and looks at , surprised, as if he forgot I was here.
His dark hair is ssy, a few strands falling across his temple, and with my free hand I brush them back into place. The touch is soft, almost unconscious—more habit than thought.
A faint smile tugs at my lips.
He looks so young like this. No perfect suit, no professional mask, no carefully constructed walls.
Just him. Soft and real.
"Why didn’t you tell you were coming?" My voice is gentle, ant only for him.
He blinks innocently, his dark eyes wide. "You forgot your phone at the apartnt."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my phone—my case, my screen, my everything. I stare at it for a mont, then let out a soft laugh, the sound small in the quiet room.
"Ah. I didn’t even realize."
I take it from him, our fingers brushing, and the touch lingers longer than it should.
"Thank you."
Moon’s voice cuts through the warmth like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Sudden.
"You two live together?"
My smile stops. I look at him, at his expressionless face, at the way his eyes have shifted from the flowers to us.
It’s such a strange question. Isn’t it normal for a couple to stay at each other’s places?
I don’t say any of that. I just nod slowly, my throat tightening.
"Why do you ask?"
He crosses his arms over his chest, his posture closing off, retreating behind a wall I’ve seen too many tis.
"I’m just surprised you’re living in such an ordinary place."
I sigh, long and tired, the sound carrying the weight of everything I’m not saying.
"Moon... don’t overthink it. You’re sick. You need to rest."
He looks away, his cheeks still flushed, his lips pressed into a thin line.
He looks like a sulking puppy—annoyed, wounded, trying not to show either.
The image should be almost funny. But the ache in his eyes isn’t.
Deniz’s voice is hesitant, soft. "I brought so handmade soup. For Mr. Moon."
I look down at the bag still in his hand, the steam gone, but the warmth still lingering. I take it gently, my fingers brushing his, and the brief contact feels like an anchor.
"Thank you."
Moon’s gaze shifts to the bag, then to Deniz. His voice is flat. Controlled.
"Did you make it?"
Deniz nods slowly, his throat working. "Yes. It’s my dad’s recipe."
A pause, his throat tightening as he swallows.
"I hope you like it. It might help... a little."
Moon’s expression changes. Just a flicker—sothing soft beneath the cold, surfacing and disappearing before I can na it.
I catch it before it vanishes—a crack in the armor he wears so tightly.
Deniz stands. I stand with him, the movent instinctive, automatic, as if we’re connected by sothing invisible.
He turns to Moon, his voice soft, kind, the way it always is even when the world isn’t kind back. "Get well soon, Mr. Moon."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small card. I tilt my head, curious. It looks like a letter—folded, handwritten, the edges slightly creased.
A fan letter, maybe, or sothing more.
Deniz hesitates, his fingers trembling just slightly, then holds it out to Moon.
"My dad is your biggest fan." A small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips. "He wanted you to have this. He was really sad when he heard you were sick."
Moon looks down at the card, then back at Deniz. For a long mont, he doesn’t move. The silence stretches, thin and fragile, and I hold my breath.
Then, slowly, he takes it.
Deniz’s smile softens, warmth returning to his eyes.
"Good night. Rest well."
Moon looks away, his voice reluctant, almost grudging, like the words are being pulled from sowhere deep and unwilling.
"Thanks for the soup."
My eyes widen. I stare at Moon.
...Did he just say thank you?
🌸 Bonus: Deniz’s POV — Before the Hospital
Deniz lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The morning light has softened, the sun climbing higher while he’s been lying here, tracing the sa crack in the plaster, the sa thoughts circling in his mind.
A long breath slips from his lips.
"I really wanted to spend the day with him," he whispers to the empty room.
"But he had to leave. His cousin needed him."
He shifts onto his side and reaches out, fingers tracing the tangled sheets beside him. The fabric is cool now, but he can still imagine the warmth that was there—the shape of Zyren’s body pressed against his, the soft sounds of his breathing, the weight of his arm draped across Deniz’s chest.
A small smile spreads across his lips.
"His scent is still on the sheets," he murmurs. "It feels like he’s still here."
He pulls Zyren’s pillow to his face and breathes in. Peach blossoms. Faint now, fading, but still there—warm and sweet and ho.
Then his gaze shifts to the nightstand.
Zyren’s phone. Dark screen, silent, forgotten.
Deniz blinks, then sits up slowly. He picks up the phone, turning it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it, the warmth that’s already fading.
"I should take it to him," he says, and his face lights up—a small, almost shy smile, like he’s been looking for a reason to see Zyren and just found one.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, already moving toward the wardrobe.
His own phone rings.
He crosses back to the nightstand and picks it up, glancing at the screen.
Dad.
He answers, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he opens the wardrobe, eyes scanning the clothes hanging there.
"Hello?"
His father’s voice cos through, warm and familiar.
"Hello, my son."
Deniz’s fingers trail over the fabric of his shirts, considering.
"I’m surprised you called. You’re usually too busy with your friends to rember you have a son."
His father laughs, the sound crackling through the speaker.
"Oh, son. You’re always so dramatic."
"I’m not dramatic. I’m honest."
Deniz pulls out a shirt, holds it up, considers it, puts it back.
"Deniz," his father says, his voice shifting slightly, becoming more serious.
"Today, when you co, bring Zyren too. I want to et him."
Deniz pauses, his hand stilling on the closet door.
"He can’t co. His cousin—Moon Arden—he’s in the hospital. Zyren had to go see him."
A beat of silence. Then his father’s voice, bright with surprise.
"Moon Arden is Zyren’s cousin?"
"Yes."
"Woo." His father’s excitent is audible.
"I’m his biggest fan!"
Deniz’s eyes widen. "When did you beco his fan?"
His father laughs again. "Ah, you don’t know everything about , son. I have layers." A pause.
"I’m going to write him a letter. Can you give it to him for ?"
Deniz sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"Dad, no. I can’t just—"
"Ah, son." His father’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. "Can’t you do this one small thing for your old father?"
"Dad, don’t—"
"I’m going to write it now." The line goes dead.
Deniz pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the screen. The call has ended.
He sighs again, long and heavy, and tosses the phone onto the bed.
"Of course," he mutters. "Of course he’s a fan."
He looks back at the wardrobe, at the clothes he’s been trying to choose, and wonders what, exactly, he’s gotten himself into.
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