His POV
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.
She blinked up at me, surprised. I didn't push her; I simply offered. She took the dishes carefully, as if they were heavier than they were, and walked to the sink, her sleeves rolled up and her face set—quiet but determined.
I watched her for a moment: her sleeves bunched at her elbows, the soft fabric of hoodie hugging her frame, her back straight but focused. Then I turned back to the table to wipe it down.
No words were spoken. Just the soft sound of dishes clattering and the rhythmic flow of water from the faucet. But my mind was racing with questions: Who is she? What happened last night? Why did she run? Why the woods? Why me?
When her eyes met mine, I didn't see a criminal. I saw exhaustion and pain, the burden of someone who has seen too much and said too little.
Was this a setup? Had I walked into a bigger problem? And why did I care? I didn't form attachments—not here, not in the cities, not in my world.
Yet here I was, letting her wear clothes I hadn't touched in a long time. I gripped the rag in my hand tighter.
No. Don't go there. Don't feel anything. Just finish cleaning.
And maybe—just maybe—I would ask her the question I should have asked last night.
The last of the plates clinked softly against the drying rack in the quiet kitchen. She stood next to the sink with her sleeves rolled up and damp hair sticking to her temple. I finished wiping down the table and leaned back against the counter with my arms crossed.
"I have to admit," I said, watching her dry her hands on a blue towel, "I didn't expect you to help with the cleanup."
She shrugged a little, looking down at the sink. "Washing plates is easier than burning rice."
I smiled slightly. "That's true."
She looked at me again, this time more slowly. "You cook well," she said. "Where did you learn?"
I wiped my hands on the towel and thought for a moment. "One of my father's friends taught me."
It wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
She tilted her head, clearly interested. "A friend? Like a chef?"
I let out a soft laugh. "Not really. He's been part of our family for as long as I can remember. 'Mr. Moore' feels too formal for the man who helped me tie my first tie."
Her eyes softened. "So, like an uncle."
"Exactly," I said. "He taught me a lot while I was growing up. Cooking was just one skill. He said I should learn how to handle a kitchen if I didn't want to go hungry someday."
She teased me with a playful look. "Smart man."
"He really is," I replied sincerely.
And that was all.
She didn't ask more questions, and I didn't offer any more details. The silence that followed felt comfortable.
She turned to lean against the counter, half-facing me with her arms crossed.
"You live here?" she asked, her tone light, but the question felt heavy.
"No," I said. "Not full-time."
She tilted her head. "Then why are you here?"
I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I come here when I need space. Time alone."
"To think?" she asked quietly.
"To breathe," I corrected. "No noise. No people. Just me and the trees."
She nodded slowly, as if she understood that need.
"And your sister?" she asked, raising her brows slightly. "You said these clothes might fit me, so I guessed…"
"She usually comes with me," I said. "We're close. We're twins."
Something flickered in her eyes, a hint of softness.
"Must be nice… being close to someone," she said.
I didn't answer her question directly. Instead, I looked at her for a moment longer and then spoke without thinking.
"Zayden," I said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"My name. Zayden." I kept my expression neutral. It wasn't my full name, the one that might be in the news. It was just enough.
She hesitated and replied quietly, "Zeynep. Zeynep Koral." The name seemed to come out slowly, as if she had almost forgotten it.
I nodded once. "Alright, Zeynep." Her name lingered between us, delicate and strange, but not unwelcome. We both fell silent.
Then I turned to pour more hot water into the mugs, steam rising into the air. Zeynep leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching me closely.
"You told me last night you were trained," she said, sounding suspicious. "What does that mean?"
I looked back at her and smirked. "Why are you questioning me, Zeynep?"
She tilted her head, looking amused. "Because you don't talk like a normal guy. You move like you're ready to fight, and you stand like you're hiding something important."
I chuckled quietly as I faced the kettle again. "So, what's your theory, detective?"
She shrugged, pretending to be serious. "Considering the rifle, the silence, and the way you scared those men away…"
"That was not a growl."
"It felt like one," she said, smirking.
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. "You're dramatic."
She smiled and then asked more directly, "So, you're military?"
"No," I replied, placing the mugs down gently. "I just trained like one."
She looked surprised by my honesty. "Seriously?"
"Civilian boot camp," I added. "I paid to learn how to be tough. No war zone needed."
Her eyebrows raised. "So… you actually paid to get yelled at, sleep in dirt, and carry bricks uphill for fun?"
I turned to face her, my voice steady. "They taught me how to survive when things go wrong. How to shoot accurately. How to stay calm under pressure. How to go unnoticed. How to think clearly without panicking."
I paused, letting my words settle. Then, I continued in a quieter voice, "And more importantly, how to finish what I start."
She studied me, her expression unreadable.
"And what exactly are you starting now?" she asked, half-joking but curious.
I looked closely at her. A flicker of something dangerous stirred in my chest. "Guess that depends on you."
Her smile faded slightly. I leaned in a little closer and set my mug aside.
"Why were you running?"
She stiffened. I didn't push her for answers—not yet.
"Who were those men?" I asked.
She stayed silent.
"Do you know them?"
Still nothing. Her eyes fell to her lap as her fingers twisted nervously around the edges of my sister's hoodie, the one I'd packed for cabin chills. Now it was stretched tightly over Zeynep's trembling shoulders.
I softened my tone a bit. "Did they hurt you?"
Her breath caught sharply, like a knife in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the fabric as if anchoring herself. When she finally spoke, her voice shook, "I can't—"
A tremor cut her off. She swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. Then, without warning, she turned away and walked off, the chair legs scraping against the floor.
Not fleeing. Disappearing.
I stood frozen, still holding the mug. I didn't follow her—not because I didn't care, but because I understood that some silences are prisons. Some people need space to deal with what's inside them.
I wondered what had happened to her. What did they do? What could break someone like her into such silence?
I kept my gaze on the closed door, filled with questions I couldn't ask. Then I whispered softly, "...Who are you?"
I glanced around the kitchen again. The plates were clean, and the table was neat. Steam still rose from the mugs, but it felt like a storm had passed through.
Then I realized something important. I had talked. Not just given orders or instructions. I had really spoken to her. More than I had with anyone else in a long time.
I didn't do that anymore.
So why her? Why now? Why was I curious about a girl I had just met—a girl I didn't know or trust? I still didn't have answers, but the question wouldn't leave my mind.