Page 115 of Mystic's Sunrise

Like she’d already decided I was going to hurt her and was simply bracing for the impact.

That look hollowed me out.

I stood there, clutching the tray so tightly my hands began to shake too, a mirror of her unraveling.

“That’s it?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re just gonna stand there and pretend I don’t exist?”

Her jaw tightened, but still, she didn’t speak.

I exhaled hard through my nose, trying to stay steady, trying not to let the helpless fury twist into something worse.

“You wanna be mad at me?” I growled, stepping closer. “Fine. Be mad. But don’t walk around like you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Still nothing.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She just stood there like a ghost, and for a second, I felt like I was the one hauntingher.

I slammed the tray down onto the nearest table, the metal clanging loud against wood and slicing through the room.

“Say somethin’, Zeynep.”

But the silence didn’t break.

“Fuck!”

The curse tore out of me, raw and ragged, all the anger and guilt and desperation I’d been trying to hold inside spilling over like a dam finally cracked.

I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

Then I stepped in again, voice dropping lower, rough and tight with something deeper than anger. “You don’t get to dothis,” I said, eyes locked on hers. “You don’t get to fade out in front of me like you don’t fuckin’ matter.”

Something shifted in her gaze. Just a flicker. Barely there.

Her lips parted—but no words came. She didn’t crumble. Didn’t speak. Didn’t scream or cry. She just stood there, silent, distant, unreachable.

And that silence cut deeper than any scream could have.

Because it wasn’t stubbornness. It was defense.

She wasn’t fighting me—she was surviving me.

And I hated it.

I hated that I’d made her feel like the only way to stay safe was to disappear. I stepped back, chest heaving, guilt roaring through me like a second heartbeat. I’d seen her angry before—quiet and fierce and protective, especially when it came to Lucy. But this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t anger.

This was something worse.

This was emptiness.

And she looked at me like I was just another man who failed her. Another reason to stop trusting.

Then—quiet. Soft. Barely audible.

“Are you finished?”