The hospital room is too warm, the air stale with antiseptic and silence. The only light is a sickly green glow from a machine near Moon's bed, painting everything in weak, underwater shadows.
I am a knot of misery on the visitor's couch. It's not a couch. It's a slab of vinyl-covered grievance, each spring a dedicated protest against my spine. The blanket they gave me is tissue-thin, useless.
I stare at the acoustic-tile ceiling, aching with a bone-deep longing.
I just want to be with Deniz. To be in his bed, holding him, my face buried in the solid warmth of his chest, breathing in the faint, clean scent of rose.
His heartbeat — steady, solid — under my ear. The warmth. The longing twists so sharply it feels like a cramp behind my ribs.
God, I miss him.
I take a deep, shaky breath.
It's just one night, Neon.
Just one.
"Zyren…"
The sound is a velvet intrusion. I don't open my eyes. I know he's watching. I can feel it—the weight of his gaze like a touch on my skin.
