His POV
I didn't have an answer, so I shifted my focus to the kettle. I filled it halfway with water and set it on the back burner. My green enamel mug, chipped at the rim, was waiting for me on the counter. Inside it was a black tea bag, ready to steep—strong and bitter, just the way I liked it.
My eyes wandered to the shelf above the sink. There was the small tin of Turkish tea I had bought months earlier. I never drank it and didn't enjoy how it brewed, but it was strong and of good quality.
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 what?
I paused and looked at the red-labeled tin in my hand. She's not my guest, nor is she my responsibility. She is just a stranger—a stranger who burned rice, screamed in her sleep, and hadn't managed to speak a full sentence to me since I gave her the cot.
Why am I thinking about her preferences? She's not mine. (Not mine? Why am I even considering that?) I didn't want her here.
My grip on the tin tightened for a moment, then I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Still, I opened the tin, scooped out enough for one small cup, and took down a clear glass mug I rarely used. I put both mugs beside mine on the counter—two mugs, two breakfasts—a choice I wouldn't analyze too much.
As the bread toasted, I flipped it in the hot pan, listening to it sizzle. I poured the tea and let it steep for just the right amount of time.
After a few minutes, I picked up both plates and set them on the table. I then headed down the hallway to wake her, but I paused at the doorway.
She was already awake.
She stood by the window near the cot, her face slightly damp from washing. Her hair was tied messily at her neck, and the scarf around her neck didn't hide the tiredness in her eyes.
She scanned the room, searching for something. One hand pulled at the tear in her sleeve, while the other rested on the small wooden cupboard against the wall. She was not digging through it—just looking.
Then I realized she was looking for something to wear.
Her clothes were not completely shredded, but they were torn and dirty. They hung awkwardly after last night's escape. I noticed how she kept pulling the fabric away from her skin, as if it no longer felt comfortable.
She wanted to feel covered, safe, and comfortable.
For a moment, I thought about her situation. My clothes wouldn't work; they would be too big for her.
Then I remembered the wardrobe in the second room. It had not been touched since my sister was last here.
I turned and walked to the storage cabinet at the back of the cabin. I opened the drawer and took out a soft navy hoodie and a pair of grey pajama pants. They were clean, warm, and the right size—simple and feminine.
I brought the clothes back to her. When she looked up, our eyes met.
She seemed surprised that I had brought anything. She probably did not expect me to speak.
I handed her the clothes. "They might fit," I said. "Better than what you're wearing."
She stared at the clothes and then at me, unsure.
"You can change if you want," I said. "Breakfast is ready. Come when you're done."
Without waiting for her answer, I turned and walked back into the kitchen.
I wanted her to decide and take her time. After everything that happened last night, she deserved that.
I set the plates down at the small wooden table and poured her tea, then took my seat. The cabin was quiet, except for the occasional crackle from the fire and the soft clink of cutlery as I arranged everything.
I did not look toward the hallway yet, but I knew she would come. She needed to eat.
I heard her footsteps approaching, soft and careful. When I looked up, I felt a rush of emotions.
She stood there, barefoot, wearing the navy hoodie that had belonged to my sister. I had taken it from the back of the drawer months ago and buried it under memories. The hoodie always fits her better. The thought of my sister hit me hard.
The hoodie hung loosely on her. Of course it did; it was hers, taken from my twin's duffel when she last visited, insisting I would be lonely alone. "You'll get lonely," she had said, as if loneliness were the worst fate.
Now the hoodie smelled like Zaria and gunpowder, reminding me of conflict.
She pulled the sleeves over her wrists, trying to hide her scars. "Thanks," she said quietly, avoiding my gaze. I grunted. "Don't thank me. It was hers first."
Then she asked softly, "She's not…?"
"Alive," I snapped. "Just not here."
Her relief frustrated me. Why did it matter to her?
The sleeves were too long, and the pants brushed her ankles. The clothes fit her comfortably. She wasn't short—just not as tall as my sister. But on her, they looked surprisingly cute. Not in a way I would admit, but it made me pause for a moment. She seemed softer now, less like a scared animal and more like someone trying to feel whole again.
Her hair was damp. The hoodie bunched up near her elbows, showing her unease. She looked around the table and then at me. Less afraid now, she moved toward the chair I pointed to.
"Sit," I said firmly but not unkindly.
She obeyed quietly.
Silence settled between us.
I handed her a plate of food and then a cup of tea. She nodded slightly and picked up a fork. We ate in silence for a minute or two. It felt familiar but also strange.
She took a bite of the omelet, chewing slowly. Then she looked up and said, "This is… good."
I didn't answer.
But that one word affected me more than it should have. She tried the tea next. Her face didn't change, but she didn't push it away either.
"Is this Turkish?" she asked quietly.
I nodded once. "You spoke in Turkish yesterday, so I guessed."
Her eyebrows raised slightly for a moment. Maybe she was impressed or curious.
She took another sip. "I prefer coffee," she said, almost like a confession.
My lips twitched faintly. "I don't have coffee."
"I figured."
There was a pause. Then, surprisingly, she looked me in the eyes.
Her gaze was direct and steady.
"Thank you," she said. "For… everything."
I didn't like how those words made something shift inside me. It felt like she was reaching for something I hadn't shared.
"I didn't do it for thanks," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. When did I start playing the hero? When did I care if a stranger slept in the cold?
She nodded again and looked down at her plate.
I watched her eat for a moment, then turned to my own food. She was quiet and careful, still lost in thought. But she wasn't shaking or hiding.
She was here.
And whether I liked it or not, that mattered.
We finished eating in silence. There were no more awkward pauses or stammered words. Only the sound of forks and knives clinking together and a few long glances. She didn't say much, and that was okay. Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.
I stood up to clear the empty plates and mugs from the table. Just then, she looked up and reached out. "I'll wash those," she said.
I paused and raised an eyebrow, then turned my head slightly toward her. "Really?" I asked, my voice low, with a slight smirk.
Her eyes widened, and she seemed to remember. The rice boiling over, the smoke filling the air, and the frantic effort to salvage the meal.
I didn't have to say anything; the memory was clear. She looked down, pressing her lips together and twisting her fingers anxiously. A sense of shame washed over her.
"I won't mess this up," she said softly. "This is simple... I can do this." Then she added quietly, "I just… don't know how to cook."
There it was—admitting clearly. She wasn't asking for pity; she was revealing a vulnerability. She still wouldn't meet my gaze and fidgeted nervously, like someone caught in a lie, though she hadn't lied. She just didn't want to feel useless.
I didn't respond with jokes or teasing. I just nodded and held out the mugs and plates to her.