Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 157: The Silence Of Love♡

I step out of the elevator, and the hallway stretches before me, long and quiet. My footsteps echo against the polished floor, each one a small confession in the silence.

The apartment building is still, wrapped in the deep hush of late night—or early morning, depending on how you look at it.

I glance at my watch. 1 AM.

It’s too late. He must be sleeping.

But I couldn’t go back to the mansion. I couldn’t face those empty hallways, that cold bed, the weight of everything that happened tonight pressing down on me alone.

I just want to see Deniz.

I stop in front of his apartment door and stare at the white wood. Plain. Ordinary. Scuffed slightly at the bottom from years of use.

The most beautiful door in the world—because of what lies behind it.

Maybe he’s awake. Maybe I should just knock.

Just once.

I raise my hand, fist hovering inches from the wood. I hesitate.

What if he’s deep asleep?

What if I wake him and he’s groggy and annoyed? What if—

Stop overthinking. Just knock.

I tap once. Soft. Tentative. A question more than a demand.

I wait.

Nothing.

I knock again, a little louder. Three quick raps.

Still nothing.

He’s sleeping. Of course he is. It’s one in the morning. Normal people are asleep at this hour.

I raise my hand to knock again, then stop mid-motion.

No. I shouldn’t disturb him.

He needs his rest. He worked all day—he must be exhausted.

My hand falls back to my side. I look down at the floor—at the thin line of light beneath his door, at my own feet in their expensive shoes that feel so wrong in this humble hallway.

I really don’t want to go back to the mansion. But I can’t just—

I turn and start walking toward the elevator. My steps are slower now, heavier. Each one feels like wading through water.

I should grab some sleeping pills on the way back. Maybe those will help.

Maybe I can just... sleep through the rest of the night. Maybe tomorrow things will feel easier.

I stop in front of the elevator and press the call button. The machine hums somewhere in the walls, beginning its slow journey to my floor.

The numbers above the door tick down: 5... 4... 3...

I stare at them, my mind blank, my chest hollow.

Ding.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing the empty elevator car. Fluorescent light spills out, harsh and unwelcoming.

I take a step forward.

Two arms slide around my waist from behind.

They pull me back, and my back hits a familiar soft chest—warm, solid, safe. I know who it is before the scent even reaches me.

But then it does—fresh red rose. Warm, clean, and home.

His voice comes, rough from sleep, a low murmur against my ear that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Where are you going?"

A soft smile spreads across my lips. It starts small, then grows, warming me from the inside.

My eyes sting suddenly, and I realize—tears.

When did they come?

I didn’t even feel them start. They just... appeared. Now they slide down my cheeks, warm and silent and unstoppable.

I turn to face him.

Deniz stands before me, and the sight of him makes my heart clench. His hair is a messy disaster, falling across his forehead in dark waves that stick up at odd angles.

He’s wearing a loose night suit, the shirt hanging softly on his frame, and his feet are bare against the cold floor, his toes curling slightly.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, still full of sleep—until they see my face.

Then they open fully.

Alert. Worried. His.

His hand reaches up, cupping my cheek with a tenderness that makes me want to cry harder.

His thumb brushes away the tears, featherlight, following the paths they’ve carved down my skin.

"Zyren." His voice is soft, urgent, full of everything.

"Are you okay?"

I give him a soft smile. It feels fragile, like it might crack, but it’s real.

It’s for him.

"Yes. I’m okay." My voice is quiet, a little unsteady.

"I thought you were sleeping, so I didn’t want to—"

He doesn’t let me finish.

His hand slides around my back, warm and sure. The other hooks under my legs.

In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifts me, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing, like I’m something precious.

"Deniz—I can walk—"

"Let’s go."

He carries me inside, and the apartment wraps around us like a warm embrace. It’s always like this here—warm, safe, filled with the faint scent of red roses that clings to everything he owns.

The lights are dim, the way he leaves them when he sleeps, casting soft shadows on the walls.

He sets me down gently on the couch. The cushions sink beneath me, soft and familiar.

Then he kneels before me and reaches for my shoes.

"Deniz."

I try to stop him, my hand reaching for his.

"I can do that."

He doesn’t look up. "Shh."

His voice is quiet, firm, but not harsh.

"Just stay still."

I stop.

His fingers work carefully, unlacing my shoes with a patience I don’t possess.

He pulls them off, one by one, setting them aside. Then he reaches for my coat, sliding it off my shoulders, and I let him.

His movements are slow, deliberate, full of a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

He unbuttons my shirt.

One button at a time. His fingers brush my skin with each one, light touches that ground me, remind me I’m here, I’m real, I’m loved.

"Do you want to shower?" he asks quietly.

I look at him. His dark eyes are soft, patient, waiting.

My cheeks warm, and I nod slowly.

He lifts me again, cradling me in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes.

His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, a rhythm that soothes something deep inside me.

He carries me to the bathroom, and I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.

The sadness. The frustration. The weight of Moon’s confession, of his tears, of that impossible promise I made—it all begins to fade.

Not disappear, not completely, but soften. Lose its sharp edges. Become something I can carry.

With someone you love, you don’t have to explain everything. They read it in your eyes.

In the way they hold you. In the silences you share.

I’ve read that in so many novels, always wondering if it was true. Always hoping, but never quite believing.

Now I know.

It is.