The last plate made a soft clink against the drying rack in the quiet kitchen. She stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, with damp hair stuck to her temple.
He finished wiping down the table and leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed.
"I have to admit," he said, watching her dry her hands on a blue towel, "I didn’t think you’d help with the cleanup."
She shrugged a bit, glancing down at the sink. "Washing plates is easier than burning rice."
He smiled slightly. "That’s true."
She looked over at him again, this ti a bit more slowly. "You cook well," she said. "Where’d you learn that?"
He wiped his hands on the towel and thought for a mont. "One of my dad’s friends taught ."
It wasn’t a total lie, but it wasn’t the full story either.
She tilted her head, clearly curious. "A friend? Like a chef or sothing?"
He laughed softly. "Not really. He’s been part of our family forever. Calling him ’Mr. Moore feels too formal for the guy who helped tie my first tie."
Her eyes softened. "So, like an uncle."
"Exactly," he said. "He taught a lot when I was growing up. Cooking was just one skill he thought was important. He said I should learn how to handle a kitchen if I didn’t want to go hungry one day."
She gave him a playful look. "Smart guy."
"He really is," he replied honestly.
And that was it.
She didn’t ask more questions, and he didn’t offer any extra details. The silence that followed felt nice.
She turned to lean against the counter, half-facing him with her arms crossed.
"You live here?" she asked, her tone casual, though the question seed serious.
"No, not full-ti," he said.
She tilted her head. "Then what’s the deal? Why are you here?"
He paused, picking his words carefully. "I co here when I need so space. Ti to myself."
"To think?" she asked quietly.
"To breathe," he corrected. "No noise. No people. Just and the trees."
She nodded slowly, as if she got that need.
"And your wife? Sister?" she asked, raising her brows a bit. "You said these clothes might fit , so I figured..."
"My sister usually tags along," he said. "We’re close. We’re twins."
Sothing flickered in her eyes, a hint of softness.
"Must be nice... being close to soone," she said.
He didn’t answer her right away. Instead, he held her gaze for a second longer and then said without really thinking, "Zayden."
She blinked. "What?"
"My na. Zayden." He kept his face neutral. It wasn’t the full na people would recognize, just enough to keep things simple.
She hesitated, then replied quietly, "Zeynep. Zeynep Koral." It felt like the na ca out slowly, as if she’d nearly forgotten it.
He nodded. "Alright, Zeynep." Her na hung between them, delicate and strange but not unwelco. They both fell silent.
Then he turned to set the table. Zeynep leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him closely.
"You ntioned last night that you were trained," she said, sounding a little skeptical. "What does that even an?"
He glanced at her and smirked. "Why are you questioning , Zeynep?"
She tilted her head, amused. "Because you don’t sound like a regular guy. You move like you’re ready for a fight, and you stand like you’re hiding sothing important."
He laughed as he placed the vase on the table. "So, what’s your theory, detective?"
She shrugged, pretending to be serious. "Given the rifle, the quietness, and how you scared those guys away..."
"That wasn’t a growl."
"It sure felt like one," she shot back, grinning.
He shook his head, trying not to laugh. "You’re so dramatic."
She smiled and got straight to the point. "So, you’re military? Or like, special forces? Like in my country, Turkey. Turkey has MIT, Pakistan has ISI, and India has RAW. Are you one of them?"
"Definitely not!" he replied, carefully setting down the mugs. "I just trained like the military."
She looked surprised by his honesty. "Seriously?"
"Civilian boot camp," he added. "I paid to learn how to toughen up. No war zone needed."
Her eyebrows shot up. "So... you actually paid to get yelled at, sleep in dirt, and carry bricks uphill for fun?"
He faced her, his voice steady. "They taught how to survive when things go wrong. How to shoot straight. How to stay calm under pressure. How to go unnoticed. How to think clearly without panicking." He was sharing things he never usually talked about, really explaining himself for a change.
He paused to let it sink in, then continued quietly, "And more importantly, how to finish what I start."
She studied him, her expression unreadable.
"And what exactly are you starting now?" she asked. It was half a joke, but she was curious.
He looked closely at her, feeling a flicker of sothing dangerous in his chest. "Guess that depends on you."
Her smile faded just a bit. He leaned in a little closer.
"Why were you running?"
She stiffened. He didn’t press her for answers, not yet.
"Who were those guys?" he asked.
She stayed quiet.
"Do you know them?"
Still nothing. Her eyes dropped to her lap as her fingers twisted nervously around the edges of his sister’s hoodie that he’d packed for the cabin and only gave to Zeynep to wear. It hung on her like a comfort blanket now.
He softened his tone a bit. "Did they hurt you?"
She gasped as if he’d punched her in the gut. Her grip on the fabric tightened like she was trying to anchor herself. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, "I can’t."
A tremor cut her off. She swallowed hard, searching for the right words. Her eyes began to water. Then, without warning, she turned and left, the chair scraping against the floor.
Not fleeing. Disappearing.
He stood frozen, not following her, not because he didn’t care but because he understood that so silences are prisons. So people need space to deal with what’s inside them.
He wondered what had happened to her. What did those n do? What could break soone like her into such silence?
He kept his gaze on the floor, filled with questions he couldn’t voice. Then he whispered, "...Who are you?"
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