I sit back in my chair, one elbow resting on the desk, my head supported by my palm.
The face mask lies abandoned in front of me, staring back like silent proof of my failure.
I whisper under my breath, almost sulking, "I shouldn't have taken it off in front of Deniz…"
But what choice did I even have?
The moment he saw the mask, he kept insisting on the hospital. Persistent. Worried. Unrelenting.
A faint smirk tugs at my lips—carefully, so it doesn't hurt.
My future wife really worries too much about me.
The knock comes suddenly.
I straighten at once, posture snapping back into place just as the door opens. Deniz walks in, holding a small bag. His steps are calm but noticeably hurried, as if he rushed without realizing it himself.
He places the bag gently on the desk.
Without a word, he takes out a cold pad and steps closer. Before I can react, he presses it carefully against my lips.
I flinch.
