Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 86: I Want An Answer....

I stare at Deniz in silence. Confused. Maybe a little disappointed.

A little hurt.

We haven’t seen each other for days, and this is what he asks?

What I was doing in some shop?

He didn’t even ask how I’ve been.

Nothing.

Deniz’s eyes stay on me, dark and expectant. I don’t give him an answer. I let the quiet stretch, let my own petty, silent anger simmer.

Anger at my favorite person for not being who I needed him to be just now.

At myself for caring so much.

After a long, heavy stare, I finally break. My voice comes out flat. Serious.

"Why do you ask?"

He blinks, recoiling almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t expecting that.

The sharpness.

"I’m sorry," he says, the words quick, his gaze fleeing to the safe haven of the flower-filled wall.

"I didn’t mean to dig into your privacy. I was just... a little shocked."

I keep staring, a forensic study of his profile. The tense line of his jaw, the flutter of a pulse in his throat.

"When I saw you," he starts again, voice dropping to a near-whisper meant only for this tiny table, "walking alone on that dark street..."

He risks a glance, a fleeting connection of black eyes, before looking down at his own lap. His hands are there, curling slowly into fists.

"I didn’t mean to... I’m just... This area isn’t safe. Especially at night. What if something..."

His voice trails off. His knuckles are white.

I stare at him.

Ahh, Neon.

You dumb, self-absorbed fool.

He wasn’t interrogating me. He was worried. Scared for me.

And I just sat here, building a wall of hurt feelings.

The realization is a warm, flooding shame. I scold myself in the vault of my own mind.

He’s staring down at his clenched hands now, clearly wishing he could swallow the question whole.

I can’t stand the distance. This stupid, tiny table is a continent between us.

I stand up.

His head whips up, eyes wide with confusion.

I don’t hesitate. I hook my foot around the leg of my chair and drag it closer, the sound cutting sharply through the café’s warmth.

I don’t set it at a distance.

I pull it right in front of him, close enough that our knees brush when I sit.

Front to front. No table. No escape.

Deniz’s face is pure shock.

"What are you—"

I don’t answer with words. Instead I reach for his hands, which are still fisted on his lap.

My fingers slide over his knuckles, prying them gently open until his palms lie flat. Then I cover them with my own.

He freezes. Looks down at where my skin meets his, then back up at my face, his expression utterly disarmed.

"I’m sorry," I say, and my voice is different now. Softer. Roughed with regret.

"I was rude earlier. I didn’t mean it."

My thumb moves, a gentle, subconscious stroke across the warm skin of his hand.

His scent—light, clean rose, like the first bloom after a frost—wraps around us, seeping into my senses, calming the last storm inside me.

"I was there with my cousin," I explain, holding his gaze, willing him to see the truth in mine, even if the words are a shield.

"He said he was bored. Asked me to take him somewhere. I googled, and that place was the top result. That’s all."

Deniz’s eyes lock with mine. He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t nod.

Just stares, searching, as if the real answer is written in the space between my words.

I smile softly, a sad thought whispering inside me: Honestly, Deniz, I looked up that place because I wanted to go there with you.

Our hands are still joined, a warm, steady anchor. I don’t blink. I let myself look at him, to really see him after these empty days.

And then, inevitably, helplessly, my gaze falls.

It lands on his lips.

His soft, pink, slightly parted lips.

The memory doesn’t just return; it attacks. It’s the cold bite of the night air, the absolute silence of the deserted street, the glitter of his tears on reddened cheeks.

The shocking warmth of his mouth, the salt, the softness, the world narrowing to a single, trembling point of contact.

My first real kiss.

His kiss.

Our kiss.

Deniz looks at me, realizes where my gaze has fallen.

A sharp, silent inhale. He blinks, and it’s like a shutter slamming down. He can’t bear it. He looks away, a violent, beautiful blush erupting across his cheekbones.

He pulls his hands from mine as if my touch burns, fumbling for the sanctuary of his coffee mug.

"The c-coffee," he stammers, the word fracturing.

"It’s getting cold."

He lifts the mug, takes a sip that’s clearly just a maneuver to hide. His cheeks are on fire.

He stares fixedly out the big glass wall, pretending to be captivated by the hypnotic fall of snow, by anything that isn’t me sitting here, seeing straight through him.

A soft, irrepressible smile spreads across my lips, warm and fond.

This...

This exact, transparent, flustered reaction. The way he tries to hide and only shines brighter.

No matter how much he tries to school his features, his body betrays him—the blush, the averted eyes, the white-knuckled grip on the mug.

I lean back, keep staring at him, my own coffee forgotten.

I’ve missed this. More than I even knew.

And in this warm, flower-scented haven, with the snow painting the world silent outside, I have no intention of looking away.

After the warm coffee, Deniz and I walk out into the silent street. He holds the umbrella the kind lady lent us, a small shield against the slow, beautiful drift of snow.

He walks quietly beside me, his eyes fixed on the ground, watching the pavement turn half-white under the soft, steady fall.

I can’t stop staring at him.

The red rose is still in my hand, a quiet weight against my palm, its petals dark and velvety in the low light.

I really want to know what he feels about me...

The thought is a persistent whisper, a beat beneath the quiet crunch of our footsteps.

Then, my phone rings, a harsh, modern buzz that shatters the snow-muffled silence. I flinch, pulled abruptly from my thoughts. I pull it from my coat pocket and glance at the screen. A message from the driver.

[Driver: Young Master, where are you? I am at the designated location.]

I type a quick reply, my fingers stiff with cold.

[Me: No need to come. Do not wait.]

I hit send and turn the screen dark, slipping the phone back into my pocket.

The quiet returns, deeper now. Intentional.

I look back at Deniz’s profile beside me, shadowed under the umbrella.

Tonight, I want an answer from Deniz.

No more novels. No more scripts.

Just him, and me.