The lobby of Deniz's apartment building is a pocket of warm, humid air that smells of wet wool and melted snow. Our entrance is a quiet one, marked by the soft, damp sounds of our footsteps.
My clothes are wet—my knees especially, soaked through from kneeling in the garden—but I don't feel the cold. Maybe it can't reach me.
Not when our hands are locked together, fingers laced so tightly they might fuse.
This time, it's different. Deniz isn't just holding my hand; he's holding on.
The pressure is sure, possessive in the gentlest way. A helpless, giddy smile keeps breaking across my face, and my cheeks won't stop burning.
It's lovely.
We stop in front of the bank of elevators, joining a small crowd of late-evening residents.
Deniz glances at me, his dark eyes soft with a concern that's become his second nature.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low.
I look up at him, immediately flustered by the direct attention. I nod quickly.
"Yes, I'm fine."
