Our lips part, the distance between them shrinking, shrinking, the moment stretching like taffy in the warm night air—
"Deniz…!"
A voice cuts through the night like a blade.
Deniz flinches, his body going rigid above me. He looks up, and I watch the softness drain from his face, replaced by something cold and guarded.
Mr. Bryan stands a few feet away, holding a paper bag, a smile fixed on his lips that doesn't reach his eyes.
Deniz straightens quickly and stands. I sit up, brushing grass from my clothes, and he offers me his hand without looking back.
I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. Only then does he turn to face me.
His eyes find mine immediately—soft again, concerned. The shift is so quick, so automatic: from guarded stranger back to my Deniz in the space of a heartbeat.
"The grass is in your hair." His voice is gentle, meant only for me.
