Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most

Chapter 192: Sometimes Words Make Things More Complicated...

Moon’s golden gaze runs over me from head to toe, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging my presence, confirming I’m real. There’s no surprise in his expression—no flicker of warmth, no shift in those impossible amber eyes.

He simply looks at me, then looks away, returning to the book in his hands as if I’m nothing more than a shadow passing through his room.

I blink. Wait. Did he just... ignore me?

The thought settles in my chest, cold and unfamiliar.

I left Deniz this morning—left him in our bed, still warm from sleep, still carrying the scent of the night we shared. I left the first morning he ever asked for. The first time he wanted something just for himself.

And yet...

Despite everything, despite the distance I try to keep, despite the walls I build between us— I came.

And Moon is reading a book.

I shake my head and step forward. Kaz closes the door behind me, the soft click sealing us in together, alone in this too-big room with its too-quiet walls and the heavy weight of his amber wood scent pressing against my skin like a second layer.

The scent is everywhere—thick, almost visible in the dim light, wrapping around me like smoke.

I sit on the couch beside his bed. Close enough to see the shadows his lashes cast against his cheeks. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to know he’s hurting, even if he won’t say it.

He still doesn’t look at me.

My voice comes out colder than I intend.

"How long are you going to ignore me?"

His eyes stay on the book. His voice is calm, steady, like water over stones. "Why did you come here?"

"To scold you."

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

Then he closes the book—slow, deliberate—and looks at me. His movements are relaxed, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, like my presence is nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"You’re not my parent."

"No." I feel my voice tightening. "Then stop acting like a child so I don’t have to treat you like one."

I lean forward slightly. "Do you realize what you’ve done to yourself?"

He holds my gaze. His eyes—those impossible golden eyes, still burning with whatever is happening inside him—don’t waver.

No arrogance. No pride. No teasing.

Just flat. Empty. Hollow.

"That’s not your business."

The words hit me like a slap. My anger flares—hot and sudden, rising in my throat before I can swallow it.

"Why isn’t it my business?" I snap. "When I was sick, you stayed with me. You sat in that hospital room like family. You were there."

My voice cracks at the edges. "And now you’re telling me it’s not my business?" I stare at him, my chest tight.

"Have you lost your mind?"

He doesn’t reply. He just blinks, expressionless, like my words slide off him without leaving a mark.

I look down at my hands, clenched in my lap. I take a slow breath, trying to collect myself—trying to find the calm I lost somewhere between the car and this room.

Neon, calm down. He’s a patient. He’s sick. He almost died. You can’t talk to him like this.

When I look up, his voice comes again, steady as ever.

"Who told you?"

I blink, thrown. He’s not responding to anything I said. He’s not arguing, not defending, not explaining. He’s just asking his questions, moving through his own script, ignoring mine entirely.

"Kaz," I say. "Who else would tell me?"

His brow twists—a flicker of something dark crossing his face, a crack in the mask. "How dare he do things without my permission."

"Don’t be angry at him." My voice sharpens. "He’s worried about you. He’s scared for you."

I pause, letting the words settle. "Do you realize how much you put people through with this?" His eyes meet mine. "So you’re worried about the people around me."

A pause.

"Or about me?"

I sigh, long and heavy, pressing my fingers to my temple where a dull ache has settled.

"Moon. Why won’t you understand?"

He opens his book again, his voice dismissive, final.

"If you’re done, you can leave."

Done. Leave. Just like that.

I stare at him. The anger flares again—hot and quick—and I push to my feet, my legs unsteady beneath me.

"Fine." My voice is cold, brittle. "If that’s what you want, I won’t come back."

A pause.

"But stop this. Stop hurting yourself... and stop making everyone around you afraid."

He doesn’t reply.

I step toward the door. My hand reaches for the handle.

Then I stop.

I look back at him.

His eyes are red. Swollen. His face is the same—distant, closed off—but something beneath it is cracking, something he’s been holding together for too long.

The same as when we first met. Prideful. Untouchable. A fortress with walls too high to climb.

But his hands twist the pages of his book, creasing the paper, gripping so hard his knuckles turn white, and I realize— he’s not as steady as he pretends to be.

My voice comes out softer than I intended, stripped of its sharp edges.

"I know you don’t believe me, but I care about you, Moon."

His face is down, hidden from me, his hair falling across his forehead. When he speaks, his voice is low—almost a whisper, barely audible in the silence.

"You don’t." His fingers tighten on the page, crumpling the edge. "You never did. You never cared about me once."

A breath, shaky and uneven.

"You always hurt me."

The tears fall onto the page—one by one, silent and unstoppable—darkening the words, smearing the ink.

My anger breaks. My frustration crumbles.

I don’t understand what he’s talking about—what past he’s remembering, what wounds I’ve reopened just by being here, what history exists between us that I can’t recall and he can’t forget.

But I hate seeing him cry. It makes something in my chest twist and ache—something I can’t ignore.

Before I can think, before I can second-guess it—I step closer. I sit beside him on the bed and pull him into a hug.

He flinches—a small movement, a startled breath caught in his throat—but he doesn’t push me away.

He goes still in my arms, rigid, unmoving.

I don’t say anything. I just hold him.

"Zyren..." His voice is muffled against my shoulder, cracked and raw.

"Shh."

He stills. And then I feel something in him loosen—something wound too tight for too long, finally beginning to give.

Sometimes words make things more complicated. Sometimes silence is the only language that works.

I hold him tighter. The room is quiet.

His tears soak into my shirt. Neither of us speaks.