Chapter 109: Were You Jealous?

I sink into the bathtub, the hot water a blissful ache against my cold-stiffened muscles.

It’s supposed to be relaxing.

My mind refuses to cooperate.

The memory of the kiss against the door plays on a loop, perfect… until it isn’t. The way he suddenly broke it off, pulling back as if scalded.

The way his eyes dropped, that familiar, infuriating silence descending like a curtain between us.

Sometimes, I really don’t understand Deniz’s shy behavior.

The thought crystallizes, sharp and clear in the steam.

Should I ask?

Yes. Of course I should ask. We’re dating now.

I’m his boyfriend.

The word, still so new and precious, gives me a jolt of frustrated courage.

I stand up in the tub, water sluicing off my body in a noisy cascade.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound is an impatient clock. I step out, snatch the bathrobe from the hook, and shove my arms through the sleeves.

I tie the belt with a quick, loose jerk, leaving a V of skin exposed from my throat down my chest.

Enough of this silent treatment.

I push the bathroom door open and stride into the main room, my expression set in a frown of determined annoyance. If he has a problem, he should tell me.

We’re partners now. No more guessing games.

“Deniz—”

He’s at the small table, setting out cutlery for two.

He looks up.

And freezes.

His gaze travels from my damp, dripping hair, down over the loose robe, to the strip of bare, water-beaded skin I’ve left on display. His eyes widen.

A flicker of something hot and dark passes through them, gone so fast I almost miss it, replaced immediately by a flush of pure, flustered worry.

He abandons the forks and crosses the room in three quick strides.

“We need to talk,” I insist, planting my hands on my hips.

He doesn’t even look at my face. His hands come up, not to touch me, but to the edges of my robe.

With a frantic, almost parental efficiency, he yanks the soft fabric closed, overlapping it tightly over my chest, erasing the view.

“You shouldn’t come out like this,” he chides, his voice tight, his cheeks burning.

“What if you catch a cold?”

I stare at him, incredulous. I’m angry at him, and he’s worried about my health?!

Before I can voice my protest, his hand closes around my wrist. His grip is firm, insistent.

“Hey—!”

He doesn’t listen. He marches me, dripping and sputtering, right back to the bathroom door he just watched me emerge from.

“Deniz, what are you—?”

He gives me a gentle but undeniable push back over the threshold into the steam-filled room.

“Dress. Properly. Quickly.” The words are clipped, strained.

My eyes are wide as saucers.

“Ahh… wait!”

The door closes in my face with a soft, definitive click.

I stand there in the middle of the bathroom, dripping onto the mat, staring at the blank white wood.

What… is this?

I step out of the bathroom, this time fully dressed in soft sweatpants and a hoodie.

Deniz glances at me from the table, but his gaze skitters away before it can truly meet mine.

“Let’s eat,” he says, his voice a low murmur.

I walk to the table and sit down calmly. He sits across from me.

The silence stretches, thick and tentative, shaped entirely by what he refuses to say.

Fine.

If he wants silence, then silence it is. I won’t push. I don’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already seems.

I pick up my fork and begin to eat. The food is good, warm and savory, but I barely taste it.

After a moment, he speaks.

“Did you… like it?”

I look up, meeting his eyes briefly before looking back at my plate. I nod, swallowing. “Hmm,” I affirm, the sound muffled by the food. I keep my gaze down, focusing on my meal.

He stays quiet. I hear the soft clink of my own cutlery, but not his. I glance up. He hasn’t touched his food. His hands are in his lap, his head bowed.

“Why aren’t you eating?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “I’m sorry.”

I stare at him, my fork hovering mid-air.

Sorry?

“Why are you apologizing?”

He still won’t look at me.

“For pushing you. At the door.”

A pause. Then, barely audible—”And… the kiss.”

I blink. Oh. So that’s it. That’s the stone in his shoe. A slow, tender smile spreads across my lips. I set my fork down carefully.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, my voice gentle but firm.

“I’m your boyfriend. You can do that.”

He shakes his head slightly, a stubborn lock of hair falling over his brow.

“I didn’t mean to force you. I was just… angry. Because of that boy…” He trails off, as if the admission is too much.

Angry because of the boy.

The pieces click into place with a delightful, warm snap.

A broader, more knowing smile blooms on my face.

I stand up from my chair. His eyes follow my movement, wide with surprise. I walk around the table, take his arm, and gently pull. He doesn’t resist, too stunned to do anything but watch me.

I lower myself onto his lap, facing him, my legs draped over either side of his. His body goes rigid beneath me, unsure how to react to this sudden closeness.

“Zyren—” he breathes, his hands coming up to hover at my sides, unsure where to land.

I press a finger gently against his lips, silencing him. “Deniz,” I murmur, leaning in so close our noses almost brush.

“Were you jealous? Because that boy touched me?”

His gaze darts away, his entire face flooding with a deep, beautiful, telltale crimson. He doesn’t deny it.

He can’t.

A soft, delighted laugh escapes me.

Uncle David was right. He really is shy—so shy it makes him forget he’s allowed to want things.

I lean in even closer, until my temple rests against his. Our breaths mingle, warm and intimate in the small space between our faces.

His eyes, wide and dark, finally lock with mine, held captive by our proximity.

I whisper the words slowly, letting each one sink into the quiet room, into his skin.

“Deniz… your possessive version was incredible.” I let my smile soften, turning fond.

“It was great.”

***********

✨Bonus: Behind the Door –Deniz’s POV✨

The door clicks shut.

Deniz leans back against it, hand pressed to his chest. His heart is racing, wild, shaking. His other hand trembles as it brushes his cheek.

Calm down. Just calm down.

But he can’t. The memory won’t leave him.

The water on his skin, the stubborn pout on his pink lips, the heat of him—Zyren—still burned in his mind.

He hadn’t pushed him away only to protect him from the cold.

He pushed him because if he hadn’t… he would have devoured him right there.

A shiver runs through him.

His lips part.

“God… his skin… so pale… so perfect.”

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