Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 124: The Damn Cream-Colored... Card

The dinner table is small, intimate, bathed in warm golden light from the lamp above. The food spreads between us—steaming rice, colorful vegetables, tender meat glazed in something that smells like heaven.

Deniz sits across from me, eating with quiet, methodical calm.

I stare at my plate.

I pick up my fork. I stab a piece of meat. I watch the juices pool beneath it. It smells incredible. It probably is incredible.

I can’t swallow.

I move the food around my plate. Circle. Square. Triangle. Patterns that mean nothing. My appetite didn’t just vanish—it was murdered by a single cream-colored card and the name I didn’t get to read.

"Zyren."

I flinch. Look up.

Deniz has stopped eating. His fork rests beside his plate. His dark eyes are fixed on me, soft but searching.

"Do you not like it?" His voice is quiet. Careful.

"The dinner?"

I blink, force my face into something normal. "No. It’s not that." I look down at the massacred arrangement on my plate.

"It’s delicious. Really."

He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Waits.

The silence stretches, thin and fragile.

Then he pushes his chair back. The legs scrape against the floor, a small sound that feels enormous. He walks around the table, pulls out the chair beside me, and sits.

Close. His knee presses against mine through the thin robe. A point of warmth. An anchor.

His hand lifts. Cups my face. His palm is warm, calloused in places I’ve memorized.

His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, slow and tender.

"You look distant," he murmurs. Not an accusation. An observation. A door left open for me to walk through.

I stare at him without blinking.

Distant?

Shouldn’t that be my question?

What happened to you after seeing that damn card?

The thought settles under my skin, hot and restless.

He’s the one who froze. The one whose face went blank. The one who went quiet.

And now I’m the distant one?

I look away. "Nothing—"

He leans in. His lips find mine.

The kiss is soft. Warm. A question without words. It doesn’t demand answers. It doesn’t push.

It just... asks me to be here. With him.

My eyes flutter closed. My cheeks heat. The knot in my chest loosens, just a fraction.

He murmurs against my mouth, "Then why aren’t you eating?"

I open my eyes. He’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark irises.

Waiting. Patient. Loving.

What do I say?

The thought is a desperate scramble.

That I can’t stop thinking about the Omega who stood outside your apartment all day?

That I’m drowning in jealousy over a name I don’t even know?

That I’m terrified you have a past I can’t compete with?

No, Neon.

You can’t say that.

You don’t get to demand answers you’re not ready to hear.

I bite my lower lip. Hard. The words that come out are small, pathetic, embarrassed.

"I’m too lazy to eat."

His eyes widen. A beat of stunned silence.

Then he laughs.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a confused exhale. A real laugh—surprised, warm, genuine. It lights up his whole face, crinkles the corners of his eyes, makes him look younger. Freer.

"You’re lazy to eat?" He’s still laughing, shaking his head softly.

"That’s—Zyren, that’s the most—"

I pout, offended, embarrassed, my cheeks burning.

"Why are you laughing at me?"

He sobers just enough, but the smile lingers in his eyes. His thumb strokes my cheek, gentle, lingering.

"Then I’ll feed you."

He reaches for my fork. He spears a perfect slice of meat—

But he doesn’t offer it.

He brings it to his own lips.

He takes the bite between his teeth.

Then he leans in.

My eyes widen. Understanding blooms slow and warm. I part my lips, just a little, just enough.

His mouth meets mine. The transfer is gentle, intimate—his lips pressing against mine, the meat sliding between us.

I take it. I chew slowly, my eyes never leaving his.

The flavors bloom on my tongue.

Savory. Rich. Perfectly cooked.

But it’s not the meat that makes my heart race. It’s him. The warmth of his breath. The way his lips lingered. The way he’s looking at me now, soft and close and mine.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, "Better?"

I nod. I can’t speak. My cheeks are on fire.

My heart is a wild, reckless thing.

And for this moment—just this moment—the jealous thoughts scatter like fog before sunrise.

After dinner, I curl into the corner of the couch, pulling my legs up beneath me. The warmth of the meal still lingers in my stomach, but something else lingers too—a soft, shy heat on my lips where his mouth fed me.

My fingers rise, tracing the shape of my own mouth.

A smile spreads beneath my touch, helpless and giddy.

How he fed me.

Like I was something precious.

I can’t control the happiness bubbling in my chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s wonderful.

Then my gaze drifts.

The table. The damn cream-colored card, resting there like a forgotten threat. Small. Innocent. Poisonous.

My smile dies.

I stare at it. The distance between us feels like a canyon I’m supposed to cross or ignore.

Should I pick it up? Read the name?

The thought feels wrong.

Snooping. Rude. Distrustful.

But I’m his boyfriend.

The thought rises, quieter but insistent.

It’s not rude to want to know. It’s not wrong to be curious about someone who waited all day outside his door.

I lean forward. My fingers stretch. They close around the card.

I bring it close, my eyes scanning for a name.

There is none.

Just a number. A phone number, neatly printed. No name. No mansion. No explanation.

What?

Before I can process, footsteps. Deniz walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a soft towel. His hair is slightly damp, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms bare.

He smiles. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

I flinch. The card is still in my hand, visible, damning.

He stops. His eyes drop to the card in my fingers. Then back to my face.

His expression changes. Not anger. Not accusation. Just something steady. Final.

Like a decision had already been made.

He steps closer. Slowly. Gently. He reaches down and takes the card from my hand—not snatching, not grabbing.

Just... taking. His fingers brush mine, soft and warm.

He looks at it for one breath. Two.

Then he turns and drops it into the nearby waste bin.

It falls. Disappears. Gone.

I stare at him, confusion flooding in.

"Deniz—"

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends. His arm slides beneath my knees. The other wraps around my back. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest like a pillow, like something fragile and precious.

"Deniz." His name escapes me, breathless.

He doesn’t speak. He just walks, carrying me past the warm-lit living room, down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos, toward his bedroom.