Chapter 90: I Want To See Him….

I lay on my side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My face is a storm cloud of childish betrayal—a pout so profound it feels etched into my bones.

He promised.

He promised, and this is what I get?

Deniz lies perfectly still beside me. Between us, a fortress rises. A great wall of pillows, plumped and positioned with strategic, infuriating care.

My grand plan to sleep beside him, to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, to maybe, maybe drift off with my head on his chest… lies in ruins, thwarted by a barrier of cotton and fluff.

A heavy, dramatic sigh escapes me. I turn my head, just my eyes, to look at him. His own eyes are closed, his breathing deliberately even.

“Are you sleeping?”

My voice is a sulky whisper in the dim room.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Yes. I’m trying.”

I glare at the pillow barricade.

“Is this… wall… really necessary?”

“Yes.”

I prop myself up on one elbow.

“Can I remove it?”

His eyes remain shut.

“No.”

I sit all the way up, the blanket pooling at my waist.

“Why?”

Finally, his eyes open. They find me in the semi-darkness, reflecting the faint light from the window.

There’s a weary fondness there, but beneath it, a line of steel.

“Zyren. No.”

I stare back, an angry bunny in a hoodie.

Why is he like this?

I let my lower lip jut out further, turning my face away with a huff.

“These pillows are uncomfortable. They’re in my way.”

He watches my performance, unmoved.

“Then… I’ll sleep on the couch.”

My head whips back toward him.

“You’re breaking your promise!”

“Then lay back down,” he counters, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“And sleep. And let me sleep.”

He closes his eyes again, a clear dismissal.

“I’m removing them.”

“If you do,” he says, eyes still closed, “I will go to the couch.”

“Deniz, you promised me!”

“Zyren.” His voice is final, a soft, firm door closing.

“Just. Sleep.”

I stare at the sharp line of his profile, my mind racing.

Fine. You want to play guard?

A dangerous, slow smile begins to curl my lips in the darkness. I just have to wait. Wait for the even breath of true sleep to claim him.

I let out another theatrical, world-weary sigh and flop back onto my pillow.

Just wait, Neon.

Just a little longer.

The room falls into a deep, watchful quiet, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the soft sound of our breathing.

I count the seconds. The minutes. Half an hour, maybe. Slowly, I crack my eyes open.

Deniz lies perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm. A perfect, dangerous smile blooms on my lips.

Now.

Moving with the slowness of a predator, I sit up. My eyes never leave his serene face. I reach for the first offensive pillow, my fingers closing gently around its corner.

I begin to pull, a millimeter at a time, my breath held—

A hand shoots out from the darkness. His fingers wrap around the pillow, his grip firm and unyielding.

My eyes fly wide. I stare, frozen.

He doesn’t open his eyes. His voice is a low, sleepy murmur, but it holds absolute clarity.

“Zyren. Just sleep.”

My heart stutters. “Aren’t you… sleeping?”

Slowly, as if it’s a great effort, his eyelids lift. He looks at me, and there’s no trace of sleep in that dark, knowing gaze.

“I’m trying to. But yo…”

I make a sudden, desperate grab to yank the pillow free, but his hold is iron.

“Zyren… don’t.”

My face crumples into pure, unadulterated furry—the expression of a child whose last cookie has been stolen.

“I don’t like this pillow!” I tug again, fruitlessly.

His voice drops, a quiet ultimatum. “If you remove this, I won’t let you stay at my place again. Ever.”

The words are a bucket of ice water. My fight drains out of me instantly. My eyes widen in genuine shock.

“Den…!”

“Zyren,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“Sleep.”

I release the pillow as if it’s burned me. The victory I’d tasted turns to ashes. With a final, angry flounce, I throw myself back down onto the mattress, yanking the blanket up to my chin with a force that rustles the entire bed. My grip on the fabric is white-knuckled.

“You’re so rude,” I mutter into the darkness, the words thick with petulant defeat.

“Sleep,” is his only reply.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a portrait of furious surrender.

“Fine.”

But inside, the gears are already turning again.

This battle may be lost. But the war for his heart—and a pillow-free bed—is far from over.

Ahh…

My eyes struggle open against a weight that feels less like sleep and more like lead. The morning light is a soft, intrusive glow against my eyelids.

God… why do they feel so heavy?

I try to force them wider, but the effort sends a dull ache through my temples.

My entire body burns—a deep, internal fire that licks at my bones and makes my skin feel too tight. A low, pathetic whimper catches in my dry throat.

My vision swims, the world a watercolor blur of soft light and vague shapes. I blink, slow and deliberate, fighting to bring the room into focus.

And there he is.

Deniz.

Sleeping peacefully beside me. The morning light gilds the curve of his cheek, the sweep of his dark lashes against his skin. His breaths are calm, even—a quiet tide in the stillness.

So beautiful it makes the burning in my chest tighten for a different reason.

I stare, my thoughts moving through syrup.

What a… good morning.

My head isn’t on my pillow. It’s resting on the solid, warm plane of his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

Our bodies are tangled together inside the blanket, legs intertwined, one of his arms slung loosely over my waist.

A haphazard intimacy achieved in the secret, unguarded hours of the night.

A weak, triumphant smile touches my parched lips.

I… did it.

The pillow wall lies in ruins around us, a silent testament to my unconscious, feverish victory.

I don’t even remember crossing the divide. My body, it seems, was more stubborn than my waking mind.

I want to savor this. To memorize the feel of him like this. Slowly, I lift a trembling, fever-hot hand.

My fingers trace a ghostly path over the soft cotton of his shirt, feeling the firm warmth of his chest beneath.

The sensation is a balm and an agony—so good it almost hurts.

I want to see him.

I want to watch the exact moment his eyes open and find me here.

But my body is a traitor. The heaviness returns, a crushing wave dragging me down.

My eyelids flutter, a desperate, losing battle.

“Den…?” The name is a breathless, broken sound that never fully leaves my lips.

No… why are they closing…

I don’t want to…

The world dims at the edges, the light retreating.

His peaceful face is the last thing I see before the darkness rushes in, not soft like sleep, but deep and absolute, swallowing the morning whole.

Everything is black.

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