I stand before the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of my office, a solitary figure against a backdrop of night and silent, falling snow.
I stare out, unblinking, but I don't see the city lights.
I'm seeing Angel's face. His reaction—or lack of it—after my confession. The quiet "I feel a little weird. I want to go back."
No judgment. No smile. Just a gentle, bewildered retreat that left a hollow, sad little ache under my ribs.
Why did he behave like that?
The question is a cold stone in my chest. I'm so lost in the chill of it that I don't hear the first knock.
The second one pulls me back. I blink, the snowy night coming into focus.
"Come in."
The door opens. I don't need to turn.
I see his reflection in the dark glass—a familiar, steady silhouette that always seems to appear when I'm feeling most adrift.
A soft, helpless smile touches my lips even before I face him.
"Sir," Deniz says, his voice respectful.
"It's getting late."
