Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 186: What Was He Trying To Say?

The car rolls forward, pulling away from the hospital entrance, leaving behind the white walls, antiseptic air, and the days of uncertainty that clung to me like a second skin. I sink into the back seat, letting the leather cradle my tired body, my head resting against the headrest.

Outside the window, the city slides past in ribbons of afternoon sunlight—golden and warm, softening everything it touches.

I let my gaze drift across the passing streets, the familiar blur of buildings and trees and people living their ordinary lives, but my mind is elsewhere. It’s caught on words that won’t stop circling, looping back again and again, impossible to ignore. looping back again and again like a song I can’t forget.

Alpha trait turning into an Omega. More likely than turning into a Beta.

The doctor’s voice echoes in my head, clinical, measured—each word chosen with precision of someone delivering news that could shift the ground beneath a person’s feet.

Golden Omega. Very rare. Can’t guarantee anything, but the signs are there.

I press my palm against the window, feeling the vibration of the road through the glass, the faint hum of tires against asphalt.

If I turn into an Omega, at least I won’t lose my pheromones. That’s something. But Beta would be easier. Quieter. Less complicated.

No one expects anything from a Beta. No one watches them closely enough to see if they break.

What would Deniz think?

I glance at him, the movement slow, careful, like I’m afraid of being caught. He sits beside me, his profile sharp against the afternoon light, his gaze fixed on the street outside. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

His expression is wrong somehow—blank in a way I’ve learned to recognize over the months we’ve spent reading each other’s silences. It’s the look he wears when something sits heavy on his chest, when his thoughts pull him somewhere I can’t follow.

He was the one who was most excited to take me home. Who packed my things before I could ask, folding each shirt with careful hands. Who held my hand through the discharge papers with a smile that lit up the whole room, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin.

Now he sits like a statue, silent, distant, somewhere I can’t reach.

"Deniz."

He blinks, slow, like he’s surfacing from deep water, and turns to me. His eyes are clear, but there’s something behind them—something he’s holding back.

"Is everything okay?"

He nods, his voice calm, even. "Yes. Everything’s fine."

His gaze slides away, back to the window, back to whatever he’s watching that I can’t see.

I reach over slowly, my fingers finding his hand, lacing through them. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t squeeze back either. I shift closer, my shoulder pressing against his arm, my hip against his thigh.

He flinches—just a small movement, barely anything—but I feel it, a tremor beneath the surface of his calm.

I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric. The city moves outside, indifferent, but here, in this small space, time seems to slow.

"You feel absent," I murmur against his sleeve.

His fingers tighten around mine, just slightly. "I’m alright. Just tired."

I let my nose brush against his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent fills my lungs—fresh red rose, clean, warm, and familiar. It’s the same scent that follows me through dreams and waking, something I’ve pressed into my pillows when he wasn’t there, something I’ve breathed in the dark when I couldn’t sleep. I feel something loosen in my chest, a knot I didn’t know I was holding.

"Is that so..." My voice is soft, drowsy, sinking into the warmth of him.

He nods, still not meeting my eyes.

I press a kiss to his neck, featherlight, barely there. A shiver runs through him—quick and unmistakable, a current passing through his whole body.

I feel the corner of my mouth curve against his skin, and I let my eyes close, letting the warmth of him wrap around me, letting the hum of the car and the rhythm of his breathing pull me under.

For a long moment, there is only this: the weight of his shoulder beneath my cheek, the pulse beating steady in his throat, the afternoon light painting patterns on the back of my eyelids.

Then his voice comes, soft, hesitant, like a question he’s been holding too long.

"Zyren..."

I don’t open my eyes. "Hmm."

"...Why do you..."

He stops. The silence stretches, thin and fragile, and I can feel him struggling—the words caught somewhere between his chest and his lips, the thing he wants to say pressing against the walls he’s built.

I wait, my breath slow, my body still against his.

"Zyren." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper.

"Do you want to go to my place?"

I open my eyes.

He’s staring at his lap, his jaw tight, his fingers now gripping mine with a tension that wasn’t there before. He asked, but his voice was strange—uncertain, almost... shy. Like he was afraid of the answer.

He looks away again, his words coming faster now, tumbling over each other.

"If you don’t want to, it’s fine. You should probably rest anyway. You just got out of the hospital, and the doctor said—"

"Do you really think I’d say no to that?"

He stops. His eyes meet mine, wide, startled.

I lean forward, my lips brushing his ear, my voice a whisper meant only for him. "Let’s go quickly. I feel hot. And strange." I pause, letting the words settle, letting them mean what they mean.

"I need you."

His cheeks go pink—that beautiful, helpless pink that spreads from his ears to his neck, that I’ve loved since the first time I saw it, that I would chase across every moment of every day if I could. He pulls back, his hand flying to his tie, straightening it with nervous fingers that can’t quite find their rhythm.

"No," he stammers, his voice cracking on the word.

"What are you saying? You just got discharged. You need rest. You shouldn’t be thinking about—"

He stops, flustered, his cheeks now fully red, his composure crumbling in the most wonderful way.

I laugh—soft, warm, helpless against how much I love him. I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, quick and affectionate, letting my lips linger just long enough to feel the heat of his skin.

"I’m kidding." I squeeze his hand, letting him feel the truth in my grip.

"But if you wanted to, I’m feeling perfectly fine. The doctor said rest, but she didn’t say alone."

He turns away, his face fully red now, his mouth opening and closing without sound. I squeeze his cheek gently, laughing again, and rest my head back on his shoulder.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I let the silence settle, let the warmth of him soak into my skin, let the afternoon light fill the space between us.

But something feels different.

He changed the question. Or maybe that wasn’t the question at all. There was something in his voice when he asked—something beneath the words, something he was reaching for but couldn’t quite touch.

What was he trying to say?