Present
The next morning, Sarah woke to sunlight streaming across her face. She noticed folded clothes on a nearby couch—not quite her size but close enough. She changed, brushed her hair, and clipped back a few strands with a hair clip she found on the table. The flowers in the vase were fresh, as if someone had replaced them. Hesitating briefly, she finally opened the door to leave.
In the hallway, she saw Mehmet in casual home clothes, his hair slightly damp. He paused when he noticed her, staring for a moment before walking past.
"Anne's in the kitchen. Go see her if you want," he said without turning back.
Sarah's heart raced.
What would Mehmet's mother think of me?
Stepping into the kitchen, she saw an elegant woman in her fifties—dark hair streaked with white, eyes like Mehmet's—seated at the table, instructing the staff about breakfast.
"Ah, you must be Sarah," she said, rising to greet her.
Sarah nodded and smiled uncertainly. Before she could offer a handshake, Mehmet's mother hugged her.
"You're welcome here, Sarah," she said warmly, kissing her cheeks.
"Thank you for letting me stay," Sarah replied.
"Mehmet hasn't told me much about you, but it's still more than he's ever shared about anyone else. This is your home now. Don't be formal, you're safe here," she assured her, squeezing Sarah's hands.
"Wait in the living room until breakfast is ready. We'll eat together," she added. Sarah nodded.
"Do you need any help?" Sarah asked.
"No, my dear," she said, gesturing to the staff. "I'm just guiding them." As Sarah left, Mehmet's mother whispered, "Your eyes... just as Mehmet described."
She sat in the living room, looking out the long window, when Mehmet came in and sat on the couch opposite her.
"Your Anne is so sweet," Sarah said, smiling.
He nodded and began reading the newspaper.
"You slept well?" he asked without looking up from the paper.
"Yes, I did," Sarah replied. "Thanks, Mehmet. I'll go today." She played with a cushion as she spoke.
"You're not going anywhere, Miss Sarah," he replied.
"But I don't want to be a burden..." she mumbled.
"There's no such word as burden in your case in my vocabulary," he said. The sentence made Sarah's breath hitch. Then she noticed his scratched knuckles.
"What happened to your hand?" she asked, staring at his hand. He didn't answer.
"Will you ever try to be easy?" she pressed. He looked at her with blank eyes.
How could someone so calm seem so dangerous at the same time?
"Breakfast is ready," Mehmet's Anne announced, entering the room.
In the dining room, he remained standing until Sarah was seated. He poured tea, added sugar, and pushed the cup toward her. His Anne smiled; Sarah hesitated.
What kind of human are you? Soft one minute, rude the next.
"What are you studying here?" Anne asked.
"Literature," Sarah said.
"Do you have an interest in literature?" Anne asked. Sarah nodded.
"A lot, Auntie," she admitted, staring into her cup.
"You can call me Anne—like Mehmet does," Anne said. Sarah paused, then smiled gently.
Mehmet placed a piece of toast on her plate. She ignored it, sipping only tea.
"You didn't eat anything last night either. Finish it," Mehmet ordered, still focused on his plate.
"I'm not hungry right now," Sarah said.
"If you want anything else, I can make it for you myself," Anne offered.
"No, it's fine! I... I usually just have tea for breakfast," Sarah said quickly.
Mehmet glanced at her, then at Anne, and muttered something in Turkish. Anne nodded and replied softly. He stood abruptly.
Later, Sarah called Aniya from her room.
"You're at his place?!" Aniya nearly shouted, grinning. "Don't tell me…"
"I'm afraid," Sarah whispered.
"Of what?"
"Mehmet."
"Why, you dumb brain?! He's being protective. Stop assuming he's not manipulating you!" Aniya said as she sensed that Sarah was overthinking.
"I think something's changing," Sarah said quietly.
"What?"
"Maybe... me," Sarah tried to explain but couldn't.
"How?"
"I don't know. I can't stay here, Aniya. Come back," Sarah pleaded.
"Did Mehmet do something?"
"No, he's just... him. His Anne is so sweet, but I'm scared I might…" She cut herself off.
"You might what?" Aniya probed.
"Nothing. I'll go mad soon," Sarah deflected.
"I'll try to return as soon as possible, but stay there until then," Aniya insisted before hanging up.
Why can't you admit that you'll fall for him? Aniya whispered, smiling. Best friend with a dumb brain... Huh.
________________________________________
The city slept under a cold mist, the streets empty and still. Mehmet's car screeched to a stop outside a marble-faced building—Kaan Edem's headquarters. The tall structure loomed against the night, its few lit windows glowing like watchful eyes.
Mehmet stepped out, his black coat catching the wind, his jaw locked in stone. His men followed close behind, but his voice cut through the silence.
"Stay back," he ordered. Calm. Deadly. "This is mine."
Inside, Kaan Edem waited behind his polished oak desk, a glass of whiskey in hand. His smirk spread slowly, cruelly, as Mehmet entered.
"So, the untouchable Sultan bleeds after all," Kaan drawled. "And all this… for a girl?"
Mehmet's hand tightened around his gun. His eyes, dark as storm clouds, locked on Kaan.
"Say her name again and watch me bury you alive."
Kaan chuckled, swirling the whiskey. "She's pretty. Fragile. I almost regret not keeping her—"
The gunshot cracked like thunder. The whiskey glass shattered, shards slicing Kaan's fingers. He hissed in pain, blood mixing with spilled liquor.
Mehmet closed the distance, each step echoing on the marble floor. He slammed Kaan against the desk, the muzzle of his gun pressed under his chin. Their faces were inches apart, Mehmet's eyes burning with fury.
"You touched what's mine. For that, I should end you here."
Kaan's smirk faltered, but before Mehmet could pull the trigger, the door burst open. Two of the men who had run away from the warehouse that night, stormed in, guns raised.
"There he is!" one barked.
Mehmet didn't blink. Two quick shots rang out. Both men collapsed before their fingers even brushed their triggers, blood spilling across the floor.
But a third attacker lunged from behind, a knife glinting under the dim light. Mehmet spun, but the blade slashed deep into his shoulder. Hot pain burned through him, his shirt soaking.
He staggered—just for a breath. Then fury surged. With a growl, Mehmet yanked the knife out with his bare hand, blood dripping onto the floor. His gun lifted, steady despite the wound. One shot. The man dropped dead, chest torn open.
Silence swallowed the room. Only the sound of Mehmet's ragged breathing remained.
He turned back to Kaan, who now trembled, pinned against the desk, broken glass glittering around him.
"Listen well," Mehmet growled, pressing the barrel harder into Kaan's jaw. "If Sarah sheds one more tear because of you… if her shadow is touched again…"
His voice dropped, colder than steel.
"I'll bury you so deep, your own men won't remember where to find you. Go and thank your child; only for him I'm not ending you here tonight."
Kaan's lips trembled. No smirk. No words.
Mehmet shoved him back, disgust flashing in his eyes. Then he turned, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his coat brushing the floor as he strode out.
"Clean this up," he barked at his men without looking back. "Make sure none of them breathe again.
Last warning Edem..."
The night air hit his face, damp with mist. Blood dripped down his arm, but he didn't slow, didn't stop. His only thought burned like fire in his chest.
Sarah.
________________________________________
The clock had struck past midnight, yet Sarah hadn't been able to sleep. Something weighed on her chest, restless and sharp. When she heard the creak of the front door, she rushed out.
Her breath froze. Mehmet entered, his shirt collar darkened with blood. His steps were unsteady, his face pale but still hard with that unbearable pride.
"Mehmet," Sarah whispered, horrified. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing," he muttered and tried to walk past her.
But Sarah grabbed his arm, and when he winced, her heart sank. "Don't lie," she said fiercely. "Sit down."
"I said leave it," Mehmet growled, his jaw tightening. "I don't need this."
"You don't get to decide that," she snapped back, surprising even herself. "Not when you're bleeding like this."
He turned, eyes blazing, his pride fighting hers. "Sarah, I don't want you near this."
But she stood her ground, trembling yet unyielding. "And I don't want you to stay like this." Her voice cracked, softer now. "Please."
Something in her tone broke him for a moment. She directed him to her room. He sank into the couch, still tense, fists clenched, as though sitting there was its own defeat.
When Sarah came back with the first-aid box, Mehmet's gaze followed her sharply. "I can do it myself."
"No, you can't," she said, lowering in front of him.
She reached for his collar, and he caught her wrist mid-air. Their eyes locked ,his full of resistance, hers burning with stubborn care.
"Don't," Mehmet said hoarsely.
"Let me," Sarah whispered. She didn't pull away; instead, she slipped her hand free and gently unbuttoned the collar.
"Why does he push everyone away? What made him so closed off?"
The sight of his wound made her breath tighten. She dipped the cloth in antiseptic and leaned close. When she dabbed the cut, Mehmet hissed, his hand shooting up to grip her wrist again.
"I told you…."
Sarah pressed his shoulder down firmly, her voice shaking but determined. "Stop fighting me. You're hurting yourself more."
His breath came harder, caught between anger and surrender. He tried to look away, but the brush of her fingers against his skin kept pulling him back.
When she pressed the cloth near his neck, Mehmet's body tensed — not only from pain but from how close she was. He could feel her breath against his jaw, her lashes lowered in concentration.
"Sarah…" his voice was low, warning and pleading at once.
She stilled for a second, then shook her head. "I'm not afraid of you, Mehmet. And I'm not leaving you like this."
The words struck deeper than she knew. Slowly, his grip loosened on her wrist, his eyes flickering with something he refused to name.
"Why do I feel… comforted? This shouldn't feel safe, it's dangerous, emotionally dangerous." He thought.
She wrapped the bandage carefully, her fingers brushing over his warm skin again and again. Each touch was a quiet war — his instinct to push her away clashing with the undeniable comfort of her closeness.
When she finally tied the bandage, Mehmet let out a long, shaky breath, almost as if her care had broken through something heavier than pain.
A silence lingered, charged, thick. Sarah sat beside him on the couch and packed the first aid box.
And then, as exhaustion claimed him, his head fell against her shoulder. Sarah stiffened, her pulse racing.
The last thing he whispered, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear, was, "Don't… tell Anne… about the... wound."
"Who says you don't care about anything? You do. "
Sarah's arms instinctively shifted to hold him steady. She could feel every line of his strength pressed against her, and yet, in this moment, he seemed more fragile than she'd ever seen him.
"Why does he feel… familiar? No, it's nothing. Stop imagining things."
An hour later, Mehmet stirred, a low groan slipping past his lips. His lashes lifted slowly, heavy with exhaustion. The first thing he felt was warmth — Sarah's warmth. His head rested against her arm, a little low from her shoulder, her scarf brushing faintly against his cheek.
For a second, he stayed still, breathing her in. But then realization struck. His body stiffened, and he tried to push himself up.
Sarah's eyes fluttered open at the movement. She looked down at him.
"You should've woken me," he muttered, his voice rough, as if the words themselves were a shield.
"You needed some sleep," she replied softly.
His jaw clenched, his pride fighting the gentleness in her tone. "I don't… fall asleep on people." He tried to sit straighter, but Sarah's hand rose instinctively, steadying his shoulder.
"Don't move so fast," she said, almost scolding, but her touch was careful, trembling.
The heat of her palm against him made Mehmet falter. He looked at her — really looked. Her eyes were wide, full of worry she hadn't bothered to hide.
"If she ever finds out what I did… not just tonight, but four years ago… she'll hate me. She'll leave. She'll think I'm… wrong. She'll think I'm a stalker but I'm not..."
"Sarah," he whispered, his voice low, dangerous, as though saying her name was already too much.
She held his gaze, refusing to look away. "Why is it so hard for you to let someone care for you?"
His lips parted, breath uneven. "Because it's easier not to need anyone," he admitted, the words raw, unpolished, slipping out before he could stop them.
Finally, he pulled back slightly, not fully, just enough to breathe. But his eyes never left hers. They burned, torn between resistance and surrender.
And then he stood, forcing himself upright, but the memory of her touch clung to him like fire he couldn't shake.
Sarah watched him go, her heart pounding, knowing something had shifted, not broken, not healed, but cracked open just enough for light to seep through.