He looks up at , his blue eyes holding mine, and in them I see sothing I don’t know how to na. Sothing raw. Sothing old.
"Because the only love I want..."
He stops. His jaw tightens.
"It belongs to soone else."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fragile, like glass I’m afraid to touch. I stare at him, frozen. The room is silent except for the soft beep of the monitors and the distant hum of the hospital’s ventilation system. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what answer he’s looking for, or if he’s looking for one at all.
He looks away first.
His gaze shifts to the side table, to the bag of soup Deniz brought, still sitting where we left it, the paper handle slightly crumpled.
"I’m hungry," he says.
I blink, following his gaze. The shift is sudden, deliberate—like a door closing on whatever vulnerability he just showed, like a curtain drawn across a window I wasn’t ant to see through.
He’s changing the topic, covering the raw wound with sothing ordinary, sothing safe.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Maybe so words are too heavy to carry—
and letting them fall is the only rcy.
"Let’s eat," I say.
He looks at , his expression unreadable. "Feed ."
I blink, my expression shifting. "Moon, you’re fine. It’s not like your hands are injured. You can eat by yourself."
His face stays calm, his voice relaxed, almost lazy. "So if my hand was injured, you would feed ?"
I go still for a mont, the question lingering between us.
This man has completely lost his mind.
But arguing with him is useless. It’s always been useless. He’s like the tide—inevitable, relentless, wearing down my resistance one wave at a ti.
"Fine," I sigh, long and tired. "I’ll feed you."
I lean forward and take the bag, pulling out the soup container. The plastic is warm against my palms, condensation beading on the lid in tiny droplets that catch the light. I open it, and the sll rises—rich and savory, the kind of soup that wraps around you like a blanket on a cold night—made by soone who knows what comfort tastes like.
"It’s still warm," I murmur.
I take the spoon, scooping a small amount, lifting it to my lips and blowing softly, watching the steam curl and fade. I hold it out to him.
Moon leans forward and takes the spoon into his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine. He swallows slowly, deliberately—like he’s tasting more than just the soup.
"Did you like it?" I ask.
He nods, his voice quiet, almost reluctant. "It’s good."
I smile, small and genuine, despite everything. "I know. Deniz is a really good cook."
His eyes stay on , steady and searching, like he’s searching for sothing beneath my words.
"Do you love him because he cooks for you?"
My smile falters. I blink, confused by the question. "What do you an?"
His voice is flat, almost clinical, as if he’s diagnosing a problem. "You love him because he cooks for you. Isn’t that it?"
My brow furrows. "How can you say that?"
"Because you’re a foodie."
I stare at him. "Who told you that?"
He shrugs, calm as still water, his shoulders rising and falling beneath the thin hospital gown. "Your precious Angel."
My eyes widen. "When did you two talk? And why would he tell you that?"
Moon’s expression doesn’t change. He’s a statue, carved from stone and secrets.
"We talked," he says simply. "He ntioned it."
I look away, my mind spinning.
Angel thinks of like that? As soone who can be won over with food? The thought is strange, uncomfortable—a piece of myselfI didn’t know existed.
Moon’s voice pulls back. "Zyren. I’m curious about sothing."
I look at him, wary. "What?"
He crosses his arms over his chest, settling deeper into the pillows. The IV tube shifts with the movent, the clear liquid inside catching the light.
"Why did you choose a Beta?" His voice hardens slightly—a blade wrapped in silk. "What’s so special about him?"
A pause. "It makes angry. That you rejected for a Beta."
Anger flickers in my chest—hot and quick, like a fla catching dry grass.
"I’m curious about sothing too," I say, my voice sharper than I intended.
Moon’s voice stays calm, infuriatingly so.
"What?"
I hold his gaze. "Why did you choose ? I’m just a D-Class Alpha. What’s so special about ?"
He doesn’t answer.
Sothing shifts in his gaze—sothing I can’t na, sothing that tightens my chest and steals my breath. It’s there and gone, like a fish breaking the surface of dark water, leaving only ripples behind.
I look down at the soup container in my hands, at the warmth seeping through the plastic, at the spoon resting against the rim.
"Moon." My voice is softer now, the anger draining out of , leaving sothing heavier in its place. "I’ve already told you. I love him. And I won’t stand here and listen to anyone speak against him."
I look up at his eyes.
"Love is love. It just happens. We don’t get to choose who our hearts belong to."
His voice is flat, stripped down to nothing but truth. "You’re right. We don’t."
I lift the spoon again, scoop another small portion, blow softly until the steam thins. I hold it out to him.
He opens his mouth to speak, his gaze still fixed on my face, his lips parting, words forming that I can almost see.
"I don’t know why my heart chose a heartless person like—"
I slide the spoon into his mouth before he can finish.
His eyes widen slightly, startled by the interruption.
"Just eat," I say quietly. "Talking too much isn’t good for a patient."
He swallows. I set the spoon down and reach for a tissue, wiping his mouth gently, dabbing at the corner where a drop of soup lingers. His blue gaze stays on , unblinking, watching my every move.
"What if you turn into an Oga?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, ant only for the space between us.
"Would you still stay with that Beta?"
I go still.
The words fracture sothing inside , cracking through everything I thought I knew.
How does he know?
My face must show everything—the shock, the confusion, the fear I’ve been trying to hide since the doctor first spoke.
His eyes narrow, reading like a book I didn’t know I’d left open, pages I thought I’d locked away.
The silence stretches between us, thin and fragile, and I don’t know how to answer a question I haven’t fully answered for myself.
The soup grows warm in my hands.
Moon waits—patient as stone, his golden-flecked eyes holding mine in the quiet of the hospital room.
— Bonus: Moon’s POV 🌙 —
The door closes with a soft click, the sound small and final in the quiet of the hospital room. The silence that follows is different from before—not heavy, not waiting, just... empty.
Moon’s gaze shifts to the soup bag resting on the table.
The bag sits there, ordinary, unremarkable. His eyes linger on it for a long mont, his expression unreadable—a mask carved from years of practice, a lifeti of hiding what he really feels.
So... he can cook.
Angel’s voice echoes in his mind, light and casual, slipped into the conversation like it ant nothing. Angel had ntioned it in passing, as if it were nothing, as if the information wouldn’t lodge itself in Moon’s chest like a splinter.
Zyren is a little foodie. He can’t resist good food. You should see his face when he eats sothing he loves—it’s like watching the sun co out.
Moon reaches for his phone on the bedside table. His fingers move slowly, deliberately, like a man making a decision he’s already made a hundred tis. He dials his secretary’s number.
The line rings once. Twice, the sound faint and distant.
"Good evening, Mr. Moon." Kaz’s voice is crisp, professional.
"Kaz." Moon’s voice is flat, steady. "I have sothing urgent for you to do."
There’s a pause. He can hear Kaz shifting, straightening in his seat, preparing for whatever crisis is about to land on his desk.
"Sir, is everything all right? Should I co to the hospital?"
"No." Moon’s gaze drifts back to the soup bag. "I need you to find the best cook in the city."
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that follows a statent so unexpected that words fail entirely.
Kaz’s voice cos back, hesitant, confused, like a man who has suddenly forgotten how to speak his own language. "Sir... I don’t understand."
Moon’s voice is flat, unyielding. "I want to learn how to cook."
A small cough cos through the line. Kaz clears his throat, searching for professional footing on suddenly unfamiliar ground.
"Sir... learning to cook?" A pause, delicate as a step onto thin ice. "Why... suddenly..."
Moon’s jaw tightens. The muscle flexes once, twice. His fingers curl around the phone, pressing into it.
"Just do what I said. Find the best teacher. I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care where they’re from. Just find them."
There’s a pause, and when Kaz speaks again, his voice carries the faint, hopeless quality of a man who has long since stopped trying to understand his employer.
"Yes, sir."
Moon ends the call. He tosses the phone aside, watching it land on the mattress with a soft thump. The screen glows for a mont, then dims, then goes dark.
He looks back at the soup bag.
His eyes linger on it, tracing the soft folds of paper, the faint darkening where warmth seeps through.
If it’s cooking he wants...
His lips move, the words barely forming—a whisper ant for no one but himself.
I can cook better for him.
He closes his eyes.
I’ll prove it.
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