His eyes find me first—scanning, checking, making sure I'm whole, that I'm here, that I'm real. Then they move to the couch. To Moon. To my fingers still resting against his temple, tangled in his soft blue hair.
I stare at him, frozen. My face must show everything—the shock, the guilt, the desperate need to explain something I don't fully understand myself. My hand hovers where it shouldn't be, suspended in the air between us like evidence of a crime I didn't know I was committing.
Deniz steps forward. His eyes lock on my hand—the one I can't pull back fast enough.
The one that was touching Moon's face… like I had any right.
Like his skin was mine to comfort.
Like his sleep was mine to protect.
I pull my hand away, too quickly, like I've been burned. I straighten, smoothing my gown, finding my voice somewhere in the tangled mess of my chest. It comes out low, soft, barely audible in the quiet room.
"Deniz... how did you—"
Before I can finish, he's there.
