The Only Exception

8. Between Dreams

"No."

"Alaz—"

"No."

"She's been asking for days."

"I'm not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood," Yaman said flatly. "That's kind of your brand. But I didn't ask about your mood. I asked if you'd come out with us."

"I'm tired," Alaz snapped. "You know that going out just makes me more exhausted."

Yaman sighed, standing up with an exaggerated stretch. "Yeah. I know."

There was something in his tone—quiet, disappointed—that made Alaz's jaw clench. He hated that tone. Hated that it meant something had cracked.

"I'll see you later," Yaman added, and turned to leave.

"See you later," Alaz muttered.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Alaz stared at it, the silence flooding back in.

He hated disappointing him. But he couldn't do it. The idea of dinner and chatter and Ruya's endless enthusiasm—it felt like a performance he didn't have the energy for. He didn't want noise. He didn't want light. He wanted—

He wanted her.

He wanted to go back to that night, to the moment her head rested on his chest like it belonged there.

But that wasn't something dinner would give him.

With a frustrated sigh, he reached for his laptop and buried himself back in work. At least numbers didn't ask him to feel.

*

The scent of garlic and olive oil drifted through the apartment like a quiet promise. It was the kind of smell that softened edges—warm, simple, human. Alaz stood by the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, the other resting loosely on his hip. The soft hiss of boiling water was the only sound in the room, apart from the occasional metallic clink as he stirred the pasta.

Behind him, Asi sat at the kitchen island, barefoot, her legs tucked under her. She was thumbing through a file with a neon pink tab, her eyes scanning line after line of dense ethical evaluations, but her attention kept flickering toward the stove—toward him.

There was a kind of comfortable silence between them. Not the brittle kind that begged to be filled, but something softer, something earned.

Alaz glanced over his shoulder once, caught her watching him. She quickly looked down again.

He smirked.

Asi turned a page. Then paused. Opened her mouth to speak—then closed it.

Then opened it again.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Alaz blinked, turning off the burner. He looked back at her, brow furrowed. "For what?"

She set the file down, slid her fingers across the page before folding her hands in her lap. "For yesterday. Last night."

Understanding dawned slowly in his expression. He turned fully toward her now, spoon forgotten in the pot.

"It was nothing," he said, but his voice had a softness Asi rarely heard from him. "Really."

"It wasn't nothing," she said, firmer this time. "You didn't have to be there. But you were."

Alaz looked at her like she was a puzzle he both hated and couldn't stop trying to solve. "Of course I was there."

She nodded once, her gaze briefly dropping to the marble counter. "Still. Thank you."