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

Chapter 216: I Feel Like I’m Dreaming....

The restaurant clings to the rooftop like a secret whispered between heaven and earth. Private. Secluded. Made for lovers who want the stars to witness what words cannot say.

The city sprawls far below—a carpet of amber and gold—its distant hum softened by height, reduced to something almost gentle.

Above, the sky stretches wide and endless, a dark canvas scattered with stars like diamonds torn from some celestial treasure. Ancient. Indifferent. Watching over this single, fragile moment with cold, eternal light.

Only one table is set.

It stands at the center of the rooftop, draped in white linen that glows softly in the candlelight. Red roses spill from a crystal vase, their petals dark as wine, their fragrance heavy in the air.

Two glasses catch the flickering flames—one of crystal, one of cut glass—each holding something different. The silverware gleams. The napkins are folded into precise shapes.

Everything is arranged with quiet perfection— as if someone built this night carefully, piece by piece, just for us.

Candles dance in the gentle breeze, their flames bowing and swaying to a rhythm only they seem to hear. Their light washes the scene in gold and amber, softening edges, blurring the line between what is real and what only feels real.

A violinist plays somewhere in the shadows—an older woman with silver-streaked hair, her eyes closed in quiet concentration. The music she draws from the strings is soft and aching, drifting through the night like a whispered promise... like a memory of something that hasn’t happened yet.

A waiter appears beside me, silent as a ghost. He sets a glass of juice in front of me—precise, careful, almost ritualistic.

The glass catches the candlelight, the liquid inside glowing like amber.

I stare at it.

Confused.

Deniz sits across from me, one elbow resting on the table, his head propped against his hand. His eyes haven’t left my face since we sat down.

They move slowly, deliberately—tracing the line of my jaw, the color of my eyes, the way candlelight catches in the silver strands of my hair... as if he’s trying to memorize me. He looks at me like I’m something precious. Something he’s afraid to lose.

I glance at him, then down at the glass, then back at him again. My lower lip pushes out into a small, dramatic pout.

"Why juice?"

He lifts his wine glass, taking a slow sip. The dark liquid catches the light for a moment before disappearing. A faint smile lingers at the corner of his lips—knowing, patient... fond.

"Don’t you remember what the doctor said?" His voice is low, gentle. "No alcohol until you’re fully recovered."

I look at his wine. Then at mine. The contrast feels unfair.

"Just a little."

"No."

I sigh, long and exaggerated. "Deniz... just a little."

His voice softens—but doesn’t yield. "Zyren. Please."

I sigh again, defeated, and lift the glass. The juice is sweet on my tongue—cold, crisp. I drink because he asked me to.

Because I would do anything for him.

His eyes stay on me, soft in the candlelight. The flames reflect in his dark irises—tiny, flickering stars.

"You look so beautiful," he says quietly.

The words are simple... but the way he says them makes them feel like something sacred. "I feel like I’m dreaming."

He pauses, his gaze holding mine. "And I’m afraid..." His voice lowers, almost a whisper. "I’m afraid I’ll wake up."

I look at him. At this man who loves me. At the man I love.

A dream. Yes... you’re right. It is a dream. And it will end soon.

I don’t say it out loud. I can’t. The words are too heavy... and my throat is too tight to hold them.

His phone buzzes on the table—once, twice, a third time. The sound cuts through the soft night air, sharp and insistent. An intrusion from another world.

He glances down. His smile fades—just slightly. Just enough for me to notice. Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of something... unfamiliar.

What happened?

I take another sip of my juice, my gaze drifting toward the violinist in the corner.

Her eyes remain closed, her body swaying gently with the music. The melody is soft, lilting—notes rising and falling like waves on a distant shore. The kind of music that makes you want to close your eyes... and drift away.

Suddenly—

Deniz stands.

His chair slides back against the stone floor, the sound soft—almost swallowed by the night.

I look at him, startled, as he walks around the table toward me.

He stops in front of me. He offers his hand—palm up, fingers slightly curled.

A soft smile touches his lips. Warm. Tender. And something else... something I can’t quite name.

"Mr. Zyren." His voice is low, warm—intimate. "I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you."

I stare at him, my eyes widening slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and something softer.

The candlelight catches the silver ring on his finger— and it gleams like a small, captured star.

"Would you like to dance with me?"

I blink.

"Dance?" The word feels unfamiliar on my tongue. "Deniz... I don’t know how."

He takes my hand gently, his fingers closing around mine with quiet certainty. "Come with me."

I rise, still holding his hand, letting him lead me away from the table. We stop beneath the open sky, the stars stretching endlessly above us.

The violin swells—soft, aching—like it understands this moment and wants to make it last.

"Deniz, I really don’t know—"

"Shh..."

His finger lifts to my lips, gentle, warm—silencing the rest of my words. "Close your eyes," he murmurs. "Just feel the music."

I hesitate. Then I obey. My eyes close.

The world narrows— to the warmth of his hand in mine, the steady rhythm of the violin, the faint sweetness of roses in the air.

He takes my hand, his fingers sliding between mine, lacing them together. He lifts my other hand and settles it on his shoulder. I feel the fabric of his coat beneath my palm... and the steady warmth beneath it.

Then his arm slips around my waist, drawing me closer. His body meets mine—close enough that I can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Real.

I open my eyes. Our gazes meet.

The violin shifts— slower now, softer... something deeper. The notes linger in the air, stretching, as if they don’t want to fade.

Deniz moves. And I follow. Slow. Careful. Our steps fall into place without thought, as if the music itself is guiding us.

We move across the stone floor, rising and falling with the rhythm, our eyes never leaving each other.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. We just move— wrapped in the melody, wrapped in each other.

The world slips away. The city. The stars. The candles. The roses. There is only him. Only me. Only this.

Then— pain. Sharp. Sudden.

It crashes into my abdomen, stealing the breath from my lungs. My expression falters. My steps break.

I stop.

Deniz’s face changes instantly—the softness gone, replaced by alarm. "Zyren? Are you okay?"

My hand slips from his. I press it against my stomach, as if I can hold myself together— as if I can stop whatever is happening from tearing through me.

The pain spreads. Hot. Relentless. Like something burning its way through me from the inside out.

My vision blurs. My knees weaken. I bend forward, my body folding in on itself, a broken attempt to escape the pain.

"Zyren—!"

His hands catch me, gripping my arms, pulling me upright before I can fall. His voice rises—no longer calm, no longer steady.

"What’s wrong? Talk to me—what’s happening?"

I try to breathe— but the air won’t come.

It hurts. Too much. I can’t think. I can’t speak.

I can’t—

Bonus POV: Deniz — The Decision

The hospital room is silent. Deniz’s father sits on the edge of the bed, his back straight despite the years that have begun to weigh on him. His eyes are fixed on his son.

Deniz sits across from him on the small sofa, his gaze lowered—on his hands, on his lap, on anything but his father’s knowing look.

"How is Zyren, son?" his father asks. His voice is warm, a little rough from the medication, but steady. "Is he okay?"

Deniz nods. "He’s alright now. The doctors say he’s stable. They’re hopeful."

His father nods slowly, taking it in. "Good. That’s good." A pause. "And your apartment? The renovation—did it finish?"

Deniz nods again. "Almost done. Just a few things left. Painting, mostly. The kitchen still needs—"

He stops himself. "Almost done," he repeats quietly.

His father exhales, long and theatrical. "Ahh, son..." he says, shaking his head faintly. "Can you stop nodding and actually tell me what’s going on?"

Deniz opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers twist together in his lap, knuckles paling—a habit he’s never been able to break.

"I’m just..."

The words won’t come. His father reaches over, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch is gentle. Familiar. "Tell me," he says softly. "Whatever it is."

Deniz looks down at his hands. They’re trembling—just slightly. "I want to propose to Zyren." The words come out quickly, almost swallowed. "Marriage."

For a moment— silence. Then his father’s face lights up. Surprise. Understanding. And then—pure joy.

"Really?" he says, his voice lifting. "Finally!My son has decided to get married!"

Deniz looks down, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. "Dad..."

His father waves a hand, still smiling. "Then what are you doing here?" he says. "Go propose. Why are you sitting like a lost puppy? Plan something—something romantic. Something he’ll never forget."

His smile softens slightly. "I want to see my son married before I—"

"Dad."

Deniz’s voice cuts in, sharper than intended. "Don’t say that."

His father pauses, then smiles again—gentler now. "Alright. Alright."

He squeezes Deniz’s shoulder. "Just don’t wait too long. Life is short, son."

A quiet pause. "Shorter than we think."

Deniz looks down again, his fingers tightening together. "I’m just... afraid," he admits.

His father stills. "Afraid?"

"What if he doesn’t want it?" Deniz says quietly. "What if it’s too soon? What if he says no?"

His father’s hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck—an old gesture, from childhood, from a time when that touch could fix anything.

"Zyren loves you," he says simply. "I’ve seen it. The way he looks at you." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "That kind of love..."

His voice softens. "That kind of love doesn’t say no to forever."

Deniz looks up, searching his father’s face. "Go," his father says quietly. "Prepare the proposal."

A small smile returns. "I want to see my son’s wedding." Deniz nods—this time slower. Heavier.

His father opens his arms. "Come here."

"Give your old man a hug."

Deniz leans forward, wrapping his arms around his father’s thin shoulders. The embrace is warm. Familiar. Full of years, and things that don’t need to be said.

His father pats his back gently. "Finally," he murmurs, "my son is growing up... and building his own family."

Deniz closes his eyes and holds on a little tighter— afraid to let go, afraid of what comes next, but most of all— afraid of hoping.