Chapter 41: Stop Saying Cute.. Say Handsome

The kitchen is small, warm, and oddly peaceful.

I stand at the sink with my sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in lukewarm water clouded with soap. The scent of soup still clings to the air—soft, domestic, grounding. I wash each dish slowly, unhurried, the quiet wrapping around me like a secret.

Behind me, Deniz moves the mop across the floor. I don’t need to look to know he’s tense. His steps are too careful, his breathing too measured, like he’s afraid the wrong movement might shatter something fragile.

I rinse the last bowl and place it neatly on the rack. Straightening, I turn with a light smile.

“Finally,” I say. “All done.”

Deniz freezes.

His eyes lift to my face, wide and searching, like his mind is still trying to understand what he’s seeing. Like this version of me doesn’t belong anywhere he’s ever placed Zyren Kael.

I tilt my head. “What is it?”

He hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Your… face.”

I blink, genuinely confused. “What about it?”

“There’s something,” he says, lifting a hand but stopping halfway, unsure. “On your right cheek.”

I rub my cheek absently. “This?”

“It’s still there.”

I wipe again, slower this time, glancing at him. His gaze doesn’t move. It stays fixed on me, dark and intent.

“Now?” I ask.

“…Not there.”

He steps closer.

Too close.

“Ah—”

His foot slips.

Everything happens at once. His body lunges forward, and I barely have time to react before my back hits the floor. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as Deniz falls on top of me, his face pressed against my chest.

Warm. Solid. Real.

My heart stumbles.

His face is burning red when he looks up, eyes wide with panic, breath uneven. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, frantic, mirroring my own.

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I didn’t mean—”

He tries to push himself up, but the freshly mopped floor betrays him. He slips again, falling back down, one palm landing flat against my chest.

The contact steals the air from both of us.

His hand freezes.

So does he.

Without thinking, I reach up and grip his waist, steadying him before he can panic again.

“Deniz,” I say quietly.

He stills at the sound of his name.

Our eyes meet.

The room fades—the sink, the mop, the mess, all of it dissolving into the background. There’s only the space between us now, charged and delicate, humming with something neither of us is brave enough to name.

“Calm down,” I murmur. “The floor’s slippery. We’ll get up… slowly. Together.”

He swallows, then nods.

I loosen my hold. He shifts carefully, sitting up first. I follow, pushing myself upright until we’re seated on the floor side by side, clothes damp, breaths uneven, silence heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, eyes fixed on the tiles.

I smile—not teasing now, just gentle. “It’s okay.”

I glance down at my soaked shirt and sigh lightly. “Do you have anything I can change into?”

He looks up, startled, then nods too quickly. “Y-Yes. You can… take a shower.”

I stand, brushing myself off.

As I move past him, I can still feel the warmth of where he fell—like the moment hasn’t fully let go yet.

And somehow, the apartment feels smaller than before.

Warm water streams over my body, steady and soothing. I close my eyes, exhaling as the heat sinks into my muscles.

Ah—

There’s a dull ache at the back of my neck.

I lift a hand and rub the spot gently, brows knitting. It’s strange. Not sharp. Just… tender. Like something stirred beneath the skin.

A knock cuts through the sound of running water.

I freeze.

“Here—your clothes,” Deniz’s voice comes from the other side of the door, low and careful.

I turn off the shower. The sudden quiet feels loud.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I open the door.

Deniz looks up—

And immediately looks away.

His reaction is instant. Too fast. His eyes widen just a fraction before snapping to the wall beside my head. Water drips from my hair, tracing slow lines down my skin. I don’t miss the way his ears turn red, the color blooming hard and fast.

He holds out the nightwear without meeting my gaze.

“H-Here,” he says, voice noticeably softer. “The clothes.”

A teasing smile curves on my lips.

“Are you shy?” I ask lightly.

“No,” he answers too quickly, cheeks burning. “I’m not.”

I take the clothes from his hands. His fingers brush mine for half a second, then retreat like he’s been burned.

“Dinner’s ready,” he adds, still refusing to look at me, before turning and walking away—stiff, flustered, completely undone.

I chuckle under my breath and step back into the bathroom.

When I change and face the mirror, my smile freezes.

Pink.

I stare.

Pink pajamas. Soft. Light. Ridiculously… cute.

Absolutely unacceptable.

I march out of the bathroom, irritation sharp and immediate. “Deniz.”

He’s setting plates on the table when he looks up. “What happened?”

I clutch the shirt at my chest. “Do you have anything else?”

He scans me from head to toe—slowly this time, openly. Then he says, calm and sincere, “It suits you perfectly. What’s wrong?”

“Pink,” I say flatly, lips pulling into a pout despite myself. “I don’t want to wear pink.”

His gaze lingers on my face. “What’s wrong with pink?” he asks, then adds without thinking, “You look… kind of cute.”

My eyes widen.

Cute?

The word hits harder than it should.

“Deniz,” I snap, stepping closer. “Are you thinking of me as an omega like everyone else?”

He stiffens instantly. “No—no. I’m not.” He shakes his head, firm this time. “I know you’re an alpha.”

I study him for a second, then lift my chin proudly. “Then stop saying cute. Say handsome.”

I fold my arms, looking away with exaggerated dignity. “Still… it suits me perfectly.”

Deniz stares at me.

Long. Silent. Unblinking.

Then, very honestly, he says, “I just said what I felt. You look cute.”

I turn back to him, glaring. “Give me something else.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, helpless. “I only have two night suits. One I’m wearing. The other is that one.”

I glance at him—at the brown nightwear he has on. “Then why didn’t you give me that?”

He looks down at himself, then back at me. “Because the pink one is more comfortable,” he says simply. “And… I thought it would suit you better.”

I open my mouth to argue—

But he pulls out the chair. “Let’s eat. Dinner’s getting cold.”

I sigh, not defeated—just tired.

I sit.

He’s my future wife anyway. I’ll let it slide.

For now.

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