The bus glides through the darkness, its engine a low, steady hum vibrating through the worn seats.
The interior is bathed in dim fluorescent light, empty except for us—two souls tucked away in the back, alone in a world that feels like it was made just for this moment.
Deniz's head rests heavy on my shoulder, his body slack with exhaustion, his eyes closed.
His breathing is slow and even, a peaceful rhythm. But his eyelashes are still wet, clumped together from tears he thought I didn't notice, from confessions he was brave enough to make.
The sight makes my chest ache—a deep, tender ache that's becoming familiar whenever I look at him.
I glance down, my chest tightening with something too large to name. My hand lifts slowly, with the kind of gentleness you use when handling something precious.
My thumb brushes across his lashes, catching the last trace of moisture before it can fall.
His eyes open immediately.
