The small tin of Turkish tea I'd picked up months ago out of habit during a quiet city errand. I never drank it. Didn't particularly like the way it brewed. But it was high quality. Strong. Clean.
She spoke in Turkish, I reminded myself. The first thing she said after "I'm okay" was "I don't know where I am." In Turkish.
She's probably from Turkey.
So?
I paused, staring at the red-labeled tin in my hand.
She's not my guest. She's not even my responsibility.
She's a stranger.
A stranger who burned rice and screamed in her sleep and hasn't spoken a full sentence to me since I gave her the cot.
Why the hell am I focusing on her favorite or non-favorite anything?
She's not mine. (not mine?….why I'm thinking even)
I don't even want her to be here.
My grip on the tin tightened for half a second. Then I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Still… I opened the tin. Scooped out just enough for a small steep. Pulled down the clear glass mug I rarely used.
Set them both beside mine on the counter.
Two mugs. Two breakfasts.
One decision I wouldn't analyze too closely.
He didn't notice, But someone was watching him.
She didn't make a sound. Not one creak of the floorboards. Not one accidental breath too loud. She just stood there quietly—in the shadow between the hallway and kitchen—half-hidden, eyes fixed on him like she wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.
He kept working, unaware.
Toasting the bread now. Flipping it on the hot pan like he'd done a thousand times before.
Pouring the tea. Letting it steep just long enough.
After another few minutes, I picked up both plates and place it on the table and made my way toward the hallway to wake her.
But He stopped short at the doorway.
She was already out.
Standing by the window near the cot—freshly washed, face still slightly damp from the cold splash of water. Her hair was tied messily at the nape of her neck. Her scarf was back on, but it didn't hide the exhaustion beneath her eyes.
She was looking around—not panicked, but searching. One hand tugged at the tear on her sleeve, the other grazing over the small wooden cupboard tucked against the far wall. She wasn't digging. Just… scanning.
And it hit me.
She was looking for something to wear.
Her clothes weren't shredded completely—but they were torn, dirty, and hung uncomfortably after last night's escape. I could see it in her posture—the way she kept pulling the fabric away from her skin, subtly, like it no longer felt like her own.
She wanted to feel… covered.
Safe.
Comfortable.
I stood there for half a second, thinking.
My clothes were out of the question. She'd drown in them. Hide in them like armor that didn't fit.
And then it came to me.
The wardrobe in the second room.
Left untouched since the last time my sister was here.
I turned without a word and walked to the storage cabinet near the back of the cabin. Opened the drawer. Pulled out a soft navy hoodie and a folded pair of grey pajama pants—clean, warm, not too large. Feminine enough. Simple enough.
I held them loosely in one hand and returned to the room.
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
Her expression didn't change much—but I could tell she hadn't expected me to bring anything. Maybe not even speak.
I held the clothes out to her.
"They might fit," I said simply. "Better than what you're wearing."
She stared at them, then at me.
Still unsure. Still guarded.
"Change if you want," I added, my tone unreadable. "Breakfast is ready. Come when you're done."
And without waiting for her answer, I turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Let her decide.
Let her breathe.
Because after last night…
She'd earned that much.
I set the plates down at the small wooden table, poured her tea, and took my seat. The cabin was quiet again, save for the occasional pop from the fire and the soft clink of cutlery as I arranged everything.
I didn't look toward the hallway. Not yet.
But I knew she'd come.
She needed to eat.
And sure enough… a few moments later, I heard the gentle pad of her footsteps.
When I looked up—
I didn't expect it to hit me the way it did.
"She stood there, barefoot, drowning in the navy hoodie, her hoodie, the one I'd pulled from the back of the drawer where I'd buried it months ago.
The hoodie had fit her better. My sister. The thought was a grenade with the pin already pulled.
"The hoodie was too big on her. Of course it was, it was hers, stolen from my twin's duffel last time she'd forced her way up here. 'You'll get lonely,' she'd said, like that was the worst fate imaginable.
Now it smelled like Zaria and gunpowder. Like the girl who wore it and the one who'd borrowed it were at war.
She tugged the sleeves over her wrists, hiding the scars. 'Thanks,' she muttered, not meeting my eyes.
I grunted. 'Don't thank me. It was hers first.'
A beat. Then, quieter: 'She's not…?'
'Alive,' I snapped. 'Just not here.'
The relief in her eyes pissed me off. Why did she care?"
The sleeves were slightly too long, the hem of the pants brushed her ankles more than they should've. The fabric hung comfortably loose—not oversized, but clearly meant for someone just a bit taller.
She wasn't small. Not by any measure.
She was tall—just not as tall.
A few inches shorter than the girl those clothes belonged to.
But on her?
They looked…
Cute.
Not in a way I'd ever admit aloud. Not in a way that softened me. But in a way that made my thoughts pause for a beat too long.
She looked... softer now.
Less like a hunted animal.
More like someone trying to return to her own skin.
Her hair was still slightly damp. The hoodie had bunched up a little near her sleeves where she'd pushed them back. Her eyes scanned the table, then flicked toward me—cautious, uncertain, but no longer afraid.
She didn't speak.
Just moved slowly toward the seat I motioned toward with a subtle tilt of my chin.
"Sit."
She obeyed without a word.
Still silence.
I passed her the plate, then the tea. She nodded—barely—and reached for a fork.
We ate in silence for a minute or two.
The kind of silence that wasn't awkward… just unfamiliar.
She took a bite of the omelet. Her chewing slowed. She glanced up.
"This is…" She paused, then looked down again. "Good."
I didn't answer.
Because for some reason, that one word affected me more than it should've.
She tried the tea next. Her expression didn't change, but she didn't push it away either.
"Turkish?" she asked, voice quiet.
I gave a single nod. "You spoke in Turkish yesterday. Figured it was safe to assume."
Her brows lifted slightly—just for a second. Maybe impressed. Maybe curious.
She took another sip.
"I prefer coffee," she said, not in a rude way—more like a quiet confession.
My lips twitched faintly. "I don't stock coffee."
"I figured."
A beat.
Then, to my surprise—she looked me in the eyes.
Direct. Steady.
"Thank you," she said. "For… everything."
I didn't like how those words made something shift inside me.
Like they were reaching for something I hadn't offered.
."I didn't do it for thanks," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. Since when did I play the hero? Since when did I care if a stranger slept in the cold?
She nodded again, eyes dropping to her plate.
I watched her eat for another second, then focused on my own.
She was quiet. Careful. Still in her head.
But she wasn't shaking.
Wasn't hiding.
She was here.
And whether I liked it or not—
That meant something.
——
We finished eating in quiet.
No more awkward silences. No more broken words.
Just the clink of cutlery. A few glances that lingered a second too long.
She didn't say much. But she didn't need to.
Sometimes silence says more than conversation ever could.
I stood, gathering the empty plates and mugs from the table.
She looked up suddenly, reaching out. "I'll wash those."
I paused.
Eyebrow raised.
Turned my head slightly in her direction.
"Really?" I said, voice low, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Her eyes widened like she instantly remembered.
The rice.
The smoke.
The awkward shuffle of spoons and burned bottom of the pot.
I didn't say it.
I didn't have to.
She looked down, lips pressing into a tight line, and fiddled with her fingers—a quiet kind of shame washing over her.
"I won't mess this up," she said softly. "This is simple… I can do this."
Her voice dropped a little lower.