"I won't mess this up," she said softly. "This is simple… I can do this."
Her voice dropped a little lower.
"I just… I don't know how to cook."
There it was.
Quiet. Honest.
Not looking for pity. Just admitting it like a wound she didn't want anyone to see.
She still wouldn't meet my eyes. Her fingers twisted in her lap. She looked like a kid caught lying—but she hadn't lied. She just didn't want to be useless.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't joke. Didn't smirk.
Just gave a quiet nod.
Then held the mugs and plates out toward her.
She blinked up at me.
I didn't push.
Just offered.
She took them carefully from my hands like they were heavier than they were.
Then turned and walked to the sink, sleeves pushed up, silent but determined.
I watched her for a second—sleeves rolled, hoodie bunching near her elbows, her back stiff but focused—and then I turned back to the table to wipe it down.
No words.
Just the soft clatter of dishes and the rhythmic flow of water.
But my mind wasn't quiet.
It was still turning.
Still circling back to the same questions.
Who is she?
What happened last night?
Why did she run?
Why the woods?
Why me?
Her eyes—when they met mine—didn't look like a criminal's. They didn't hold lies. Just exhaustion. Pain. The kind of weight people carry when they've seen too much and told too little.
Was it a setup?
Had I just stepped into something bigger?
And more than that… why the hell did I care?
I didn't do attachments. Not out here. Not in the cities. Not in my world.
But here I was—letting her wear clothes I hadn't touched since...
I clenched the rag in my hand tighter.
No.
Don't go there.
Don't feel anything.
Just finish cleaning.
And then maybe—
Maybe I'll ask her the question I should've asked last night.
The last of the plates clinked softly against the drying rack. She stood beside the sink, sleeves still rolled, damp wavy strands clinging to her temple. I finished wiping the table and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.
"I gotta admit," I said, watching her dry her hands on the towel. "Didn't expect you to volunteer for cleanup."
She gave a small shrug, avoiding my eyes. "Washing plates is easier than burning rice."
My mouth curved slightly. "Not wrong."
She glanced at me again, this time slower. More curious than cautious. "You cook well," she said. "Where'd you learn?"
I wiped my hands on the towel, pausing for just a second. "One of my father's friends taught me."
It wasn't a full lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
She tilted her head, clearly intrigued. "A friend? Like… a chef?"
I let out a soft huff of air—close to a laugh. "Not exactly. He's served our family longer than I've been alive. 'Mr. Moore' sounds too cold for the man who helped me tie my first tie."
Her eyes softened a little. "So, like an uncle."
"Exactly," I said simply. "He taught me a lot growing up. Cooking was just one of them. Said if I didn't want to starve someday, I should know how to handle a kitchen."
She gave me a look, half teasing. "Smart man."
"He is," I replied, tone low but genuine.
And that was it.
She didn't press further. I didn't offer more.
But the silence that followed didn't feel heavy. It felt shared.
She turned then, leaning her hip against the edge of the counter—half facing me, arms folded.
"You live here?" she asked.
The question was light. But the weight behind it wasn't.
"No," I said. "Not full-time."
She tilted her head. "Then why are you out here?"
I paused for a second, choosing my words. "I come here when I need space. Time alone."
"To think?" she asked, voice quiet.
"To breathe," I corrected. "No noise. No people. Just me. The trees."
She nodded slowly, almost like she understood that more than she wanted to admit.
"And your sister?" she asked, brows slightly raised. "You said these clothes might fit me, so I guessed…"
"She usually comes with me," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "We're close. Twins."
Something flickered in her eyes. A faint softness.
"Must be nice… being close to someone."
I didn't answer that.
Not directly.
Instead, I looked at her for a moment longer, then spoke before I could stop myself.
"Zayden," I said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"My name." I kept my expression unreadable. "Zayden."
Not the full name.
Not the one that would echo through headlines.
Just enough.
She hesitated for a second. Then quietly replied, "Zeynep. Zeynep Koral."
The name rolled off her tongue like she'd almost forgotten how to say it out loud.
I nodded once. "Alright, Zeynep."
Her name settled into the space between us like smoke. Delicate. Unfamiliar. But not unwanted.
We both went quiet for a moment.
Then I turned to pour more hot water into the mugs, steam curling into the air.
She leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching me with narrowed eyes.
"You told me last night you were trained," she said, the way someone might say caught red-handed. "What does that mean exactly?"
I looked over my shoulder and smirked. "Why are you interrogating me, Zeynep?"
She tilted her head, clearly amused. "Because you don't talk like a normal guy. You move like you're ready to kill something. And you stand like you're protecting classified intel."
I chuckled under my breath, turning back to the kettle. "So, what's the theory, detective?"
She shrugged with a mock-serious expression. "Well, considering the rifle, the silence, the fact that you basically growled at those men and they ran…"
"That was not a growl."
"It felt like one," she said, smirking.
I shook my head, fighting a laugh. "You're dramatic."
She smiled, then asked more directly, "You're military?"
"No," I said, setting the mugs down gently. "I just trained like one."
She blinked, a little surprised by the honesty. "Seriously?"
"Civilian bootcamp," I added. "Six months. You pay them to break you. No warzone needed."
Her brows rose. "So… you actually paid to be yelled at, sleep in dirt, and carry bricks uphill for fun?"
I turned slightly to face her, voice calm, but deliberate. "They taught me how to survive when things go sideways. How to shoot straight. Breathe steady under pressure. Move without being seen. Think without panicking."
I paused for a second. Letting the air still between us.
Then, quieter—voice edged with something darker:
"And more importantly… how to finish what I start."
Her eyes stayed on me, unreadable.
"And what exactly are you starting now?" she asked, half-joking, half-curious.
I looked at her. Really looked.
A flicker of something dangerous stirred in my chest. Not anger. Not threat. Just... truth.
"Guess that depends on you."
Her smile faded. Slightly.
I leaned forward just a little, setting my mug aside.
"Why were you running?"
She stiffened.
I didn't push—yet.
"Who were those men?"
She didn't answer.
"Do you know them?"
Still nothing. Her gaze dropped to her lap. Her fingers started twisting again, nervously playing with the edge of her hoodie, my sister's hoodie, the one I'd only packed because she'd nagged me about 'cabin hypothermia.' Now it was stretched taut over Zeynep's shaking shoulders.
My voice softened just slightly. "Did they hurt you?"
Her breath hitched—just once, sharp as a blade between ribs. Her fingers twisted in the hoodie sleeves, knuckles bleaching white around the fabric like she was anchoring herself to the present. When she finally spoke, her voice was frayed at the edges: "I can't—"
A tremor cut her off. She swallowed hard, throat working around the words she wouldn't or couldn't release. Then she turned, so fast the chair legs screeched against the floor, and walked away.
Not fleeing. Disintegrating."
I stood there frozen, mug still in hand.
I didn't follow.
Not because I didn't care.
But because Some silences were prisons. I knew that better than anyone."
That weight.
She didn't need someone asking more questions.
She needed space to hold whatever cracked open inside her.
What happened to you?
What did they do?
What could break a girl like you into that kind of silence?
I stared at the closed door, chest tight with questions I couldn't voice.
And then, softly, I whispered to no one,
"…Who are you?"
I looked around the kitchen again.
Plates cleaned. Table spotless. Steam still rising from the mugs.
And yet it felt like a storm had passed through.
I realized something then—something I hadn't even noticed in the moment.
I'd talked.
Not just barked orders. Not given cold instructions.
I'd actually talked.
To her.
More than I had with friends. Family. Anyone.
I didn't do that. Not anymore.
So why her?
Why now?
Why was I so curious about a girl I'd just met, a girl I didn't know, couldn't trust, shouldn't care about?
I didn't have the answer.
But the question wouldn't leave me.