We reached the building whose location I'd been sent earlier. The car slowed near the curb, its dark windows reflecting the sleek glass structure towering above us. Inside, the silence between me and Dylan had stretched out, with only a few quiet glances exchanged, nothing more. Words weren't really necessary.
He stepped out of the car first, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket with practiced ease. I followed a moment later, smoothing down my coat as I climbed out behind him. The air outside was crisp, laced with the subtle scent of fresh concrete and city wind.
The lobby was all marble and glass, modern yet not overbearing. As we walked through the tall glass doors, a sharply dressed receptionist behind the front desk looked up and instantly straightened when her eyes landed on Dylan.
"Yes, Mr. Fynder," she said, her voice sweet but strictly professional. "We were expecting you. Please, follow me."
She nodded politely at me as well, a quiet acknowledgment of my presence, though her eyes lingered curiously for a second too long, probably trying to place who I was with him.
Without missing a beat, Dylan offered her a tight-lipped smile and a small nod. I fell into step beside him as she stepped out from behind the desk and led us toward the elevators, the click of her heels echoing off polished floors.
We followed in silence, side by side, but the space between us felt charged, like something unspoken was still hanging in the air from earlier… or maybe just always had been.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. The receptionist stood poised behind her sleek black desk, the sound of her heels echoing against the marble floor as she stepped forward. "Top floor," she said with a polished smile, her eyes flicking to Dylan. "Someone will be there to receive you, Mr. Fynder."
Dylan nodded once, just enough to acknowledge her, but not enough to break his stride. There was no small talk, no thanks. Just that effortless, calm confidence that didn't ask for attention but still got it.
This wasn't his building. Not his turf.
But you'd never know it by the way he moved.
He stepped into the elevator first, his tailored coat brushing against the polished brass walls, hands sliding into his pockets like he had all the time in the world. I followed, my heels clicking softly, and the doors slid shut behind us with a clean metallic click.
The silence was immediate.
Not awkward, exactly, but thick. The quietness precedes a significant event. The elevator began to rise smoothly and soundlessly, each floor passing by in quiet succession.
The lighting inside was a soft white, almost too perfect and clinical, like a private hospital or a lab. I found myself watching the reflection in the mirrored panel across from us. Dylan stood completely still. Composed. Controlled. Almost statuesque.
And yet, I could feel it. His gaze was on me.
"You're staring," I said lightly, keeping my eyes on the floor numbers.
"I'm observing," he corrected, voice low and even. "You get twitchy before meetings."
I turned my head, lifting a brow. "Twitchy?"
He nodded, smirking faintly. "Mm-hmm. You tense your shoulders. You breathe like you're about to give a speech. And," he gestured with his chin.
I glanced down at the tube in my hand and cursed under my breath, twisting the cap shut.
"You're unusually observant today," he said flatly
"I'm always observant," he replied, leaning slightly against the back wall. "But you only notice when you're anxious."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Or maybe you're just bored and playing Sherlock Holmes because you've memorized everyone's résumé already."
He gave a slow, smug grin. "Not just their résumés. I know where they hide their money, who they've cheated on, what they whispered to their lawyers, and how many burner phones they own."
I blinked. "You're terrifying."
He didn't look at me right away—just watched the floor numbers tick down with infuriating calm. Then, with a slow nod: "Efficiently terrifying."
I let out a short laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the cramped elevator. The metal walls made everything feel a little too close, like the air itself was listening. He stood beside me, hands in his pockets, entirely relaxed—too relaxed.
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Remind me to keep you on my good side," he said, almost too gently.
That made me pause. Just for a second. The overhead lights flickered as the elevator shifted floors. I glanced over, expecting a smirk, but his face was unreadable—like he meant it, maybe a little more than he should have.
My grip tightened on the rail behind me, just to do something with my hands. The silence stretched half a second too long.
"Smooth," I said at last, giving him a sideways glance.
He finally looked at me then, full-on, one eyebrow raised. "I have my moments."
"Terrifying and charming," I muttered. "Great. You're basically a locked-room hazard."
He grinned. The elevator gave a slight jolt as it slowed. "Only if you're not careful."
His voice had dropped into that velvet tone again, the one he used when no one else was around, when he wasn't playing the powerful, untouchable Dylan Fynder. The kind that curled around your spine and made you question whether you'd imagined the warmth in it.
I looked at him, studying the quiet confidence in the way he stood—shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable. "You're charming when you want to be."
He leaned in slightly, not enough to crowd me, just enough that I caught the subtle scent of his cologne. Clean, sharp, a little too intentional. "Don't let it go to your head," he said, voice low. "I'm still deciding if you're a threat or an asset."
I smirked, shifting my weight against the elevator wall as the flickering fluorescent light cast thin silver lines across his face. "Both."
His grin was slow, deliberate. "That's what makes it fun."
We stood there, the elevator humming around us, and I found myself staring at him—his jaw relaxed, his expression unreadable but not cold. He looked like someone who knew exactly how much power he had... and exactly when to make it disarming.
"You do realize this isn't your usual playground, right?" I asked, cocking my head. "You're walking into someone else's building. Their rules. Their floor."
He didn't flinch. "And yet," he said coolly, "I guarantee I'll walk out with more than I came in with."
I raised a brow. "Confident, aren't we?"
"Ruth," he said, glancing at me sideways, "this isn't confidence. This is a strategy. I didn't come here unprepared."
There was something in the way he said it, quiet, calm, like gravity, that made my stomach twist in a way I couldn't name.
"I'm about to witness it firsthand, huh?" I muttered.
"You are," he replied, his voice brushing low again. "So I hope you're paying attention."
The elevator chimed softly, announcing our arrival. The lights above blinked '25,' and the elevator slowed to a smooth stop. The tension between us didn't leave it just... settled, like smoke curling in the air.
The doors parted with a whisper.
Ahead of us stretched a hallway of quiet luxury, brushed gold fixtures, warm lighting, and thick cream carpeting that muted every footstep: just money, confidence, and understated power.
Dylan stepped out first, adjusting the button of his coat with a clean, practiced motion. His face had shifted; whatever warmth that had been there just moments ago now smoothed into something sharper, more unreadable.
I followed close behind, my pulse a little louder than it should've been. My heels sank slightly into the plush carpet as we moved.
A tiny part of me wondered what it might feel like to belong to a world where a man like him could make even unfamiliar ground feel like home.
We stepped into the meeting room, the door closing behind us with a soft click that felt far too final.
The space was elegant and minimal, all clean lines and matte black finishes, with a long mahogany table at its center. Four men were already seated around it, each one dressed in tailored suits, their postures perfect and practiced. They looked to be in their late fifties, faces lined with power, not age—sharp jaws, silver streaks in neatly combed hair, and expressions carved from stone.
Their eyes flicked to Dylan first, assessing him like a piece of art they couldn't decide whether to admire or challenge. Then, briefly, they glanced at me.
I felt their gaze skim across me like a scan—curious, calculating, swift. It wasn't hostile… not yet. But I was being weighed, noted, and filed away. My presence mattered, but not enough for them to ask who I was. Not yet.
At the head of the table sat Ular Azhar.
Even seated, he exuded control—his posture was straight, his expression unreadable. I had heard of him. Anyone in this circle had. He owned a hefty number of shares in multiple international ventures, from mining in Africa to biotech in Berlin. His reputation was one of quiet, deadly precision.
When Dylan approached, Ular rose to his feet with the kind of elegance that made the room shift slightly in deference.
He extended a hand and spoke in Turkish, his voice deep and polished:"İyi günler Bay Fynder, sizi bekliyorduk, bu kadar kısa sürede aramıza katılabildiğinize sevindim."Good day, Mr. Fynder. We've been expecting you, and I'm pleased you were able to join us on such short notice.
The translation appeared on my tablet, and I looked at it with a calm expression.
Dylan shook his hand firmly, returning a nod of equal weight. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Azhar. I don't like to keep people waiting."
There was a pause—brief but charged—as the two men held each other's gaze. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just two apex predators recognizing one another.
Ular gave a small smile, but it didn't touch his eyes. "Then let us not waste time. Please, have a seat."
As we moved to take our seats, Ular's gaze moved past Dylan and landed on me. His expression was unreadable, polished with the calm confidence of a man used to being in control of every room he stepped into.
"With all due respect, Mr. Fynder," he said smoothly, hands folded neatly in front of him, "I do not allow unvetted individuals in my meetings. Not even guards. I trust you understand the confidentiality of our discussions. I would appreciate it if your right hand could wait outside."
His tone wasn't rude—it was professional, almost courteous. But there was a subtle edge to it. The kind of edge powerful men wield when they expect no argument.
I stayed still, eyes forward, but I could feel every eye in the room shift slightly toward Dylan, waiting to see how he'd respond.
Dylan didn't speak right away. He simply inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, and then adjusted his coat as he leaned back in his seat.
"I understand, and I respect your concern," he said evenly. "You're right to keep the room tight."
Ular gave a single, approving nod.
"But just to clarify—" Dylan went on, voice lowering slightly as he turned his head toward Ular, "—she's not my right hand."
That made the older man pause.
"She's not here as backup or security," Dylan continued. "She's here because she knows every detail of this deal. She's sat through the numbers, the projections, the background checks. She's the one who noticed your Lisbon subsidiary's silent merger last quarter when even your partners didn't catch it."
Ular's brows twitched, ever so slightly.
Dylan's tone didn't waver.
"And more importantly," he added, eyes steady, "she doesn't speak for me. She speaks with me. There's a difference. One I'd ask you to respect, just as I'm here respecting your space."
The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. Measured.
Ular studied him, then me. His expression softened just enough to suggest something had shifted in his mind. Perhaps he liked the reminder. Perhaps he just appreciated how Dylan delivered it without raising his voice, without flinching, but with a line drawn clearly in the sand.
"I see," Ular said finally, voice smooth again. "Then let's begin."
Dylan leaned slightly toward me as the others turned their attention to their folders.
"You alright?" he asked under his breath, only loud enough for me to hear.
I nodded, lips barely moving. "Yeah."
His fingers brushed the table once in a casual gesture like grounding energy, but it felt intentional. Calming. Reassuring.
I stepped out of the meeting room slowly, the weight of the tension inside still clinging faintly to my skin like static. The corridor outside was dimly lit and silent, a long stretch of cool marble and glass, distant echoes of heels and muffled voices bleeding from faraway offices. It felt like stepping into a pause—a suspended moment in time where no one was watching, and for a rare second, I didn't have to be anything to anyone.
Across the hallway, a small wooden bench rested under a tall pane of glass that framed the city skyline. I made my way over, my footsteps muted against the stone floor, and sat down. The bench creaked gently beneath me, and I leaned back, my shoulders releasing some of the tension they'd held inside that room.
I let out a slow breath, then glanced toward the glass. The sky outside was a dusty pale blue, fading into amber as the sun began its quiet descent behind the rooftops. Planes left faint trails across the horizon, and the city hummed below with lives that weren't mine.
I pulled out my phone and turned it over in my hands before unlocking the screen. I didn't even realize what I was doing until I found myself staring at Dylan's name in my recent messages. That moment in the boardroom replayed in my head again—the way he'd kept his tone even, respectful, but firm. She speaks with me. Four simple words, but they had cut through the air like a blade. Not possessive. Not defensive. Just… clear. Intentional.
And he hadn't looked away from Ular when he said it.
That wasn't a man trying to prove something. That was a man choosing to make something known. Choosing me, in that room, in front of people who could ruin a career with a single whisper.
I felt something stir in my chest—unfamiliar, heavy with gratitude but tinged with something softer. Something that felt like… danger. Not the kind that came with bullets or betrayal.
The kind that came with care.
I shook my head slightly and opened my contacts.
I scrolled past names until I landed on one that made my heart slow and ache at the same time.
Lucas.
His name lit up the screen like a reminder of a world I hadn't touched in days.
Lucas had been my tether for so long. Not perfect, not unshakeable, but safe. The only one who knew most of what I'd survived—what Marcus did, how I lived before this... before Dylan. Lucas was the one I called when the walls got too close, when I felt like my skin didn't fit, when the nightmares returned in flashes and smoke.
I tapped his name. The empty message bar opened like a quiet door.
I stared at the blinking cursor, my thumbs hesitating above the keyboard.
What would I even say?
I was in Turkey with Dylan?
That I wasn't sure where the mission ended and where I began anymore?
This wasn't just about intel or strategy or revenge? That Dylan Fynder, the man I was meant to hate, had defended me without hesitation in front of men who barely acknowledged my existence?
That he looked at me like he saw past the layers I never let anyone close enough to touch?
My chest tightened, and I quickly turned off the screen.
I couldn't. Not yet.
Because sending that message wouldn't just be an update—it would be an admission. That something had shifted. That I was starting to let someone else in. Someone who could ruin me if I were wrong about him.
And if I admitted it to Lucas, I'd have to admit it to myself.
I slipped the phone into my coat pocket and leaned back on the bench, the cool wood pressing against my spine. My hands folded together loosely in my lap, and I let my head fall back just slightly, eyes tracing the clouds out the window as if they held some kind of answer.
Not now. Maybe later.
Lucas deserved honesty.
I took a deep breath, cleared the noise in my head, and finally typed out the message I'd been avoiding for days.
"Hey... I know it's been a while since I last talked to you. Life's been a bit of a rollercoaster, and I've just been trying to keep up. This mission with Dylan—it's turned out to be more than just moving a few files or passing information. It's real work. Real risk. And every day it gets harder to draw the line between the job and… everything else. Truth is… I think I'm starting to like him. I didn't plan on that, you know? He's not what I expected. Not anymore, at least. He's smart. Controlled. Not entirely heartless. And he's starting to figure me out, Lucas. I think he knows what I'm doing, which makes this whole thing a hell of a lot more dangerous. But I needed to tell someone. I needed to tell you. You've had my back from the very beginning—and right now, I need that support again. Even if it's to remind me who I am in all of this, I am very sorry. I just dropped everything and went silent. I truly am Lucas."
I stared at the words for a moment, thumb hovering over the send button, my chest tight.
And then I hit send.
There was no taking it back now. But for once, it felt good to say it out loud.
I leaned back in the chair and turned off my phone. I need to think of one thing at a moment, which is me being here. My eyes traveled around the hall, through the space, then to the cameras on the ceiling.
My mind drifted to the idea of freedom. Not the hollow kind of people parade around online, but real freedom. The kind where I wake up in a home I can call my own, doors locked not from fear but for comfort. Where no one touches me without my permission, where every inch of my body is mine alone. Debt-free. Unchained. Where I can breathe without feeling like I owe the world an apology. Where I can just be.
But no matter how far I let myself dream, the blood on my hands always pulls me back. It's thick, permanent. It clings to me. I've scrubbed, cried, and prayed, but it won't come off. I walk into rooms like I own them, play the part, speak with conviction, like I've got everything figured out. But inside… I'm haunted. The faces of those I've killed don't just fade with time. They visit me. Night after night. Whispering. Screaming. Begging.
People think becoming an assassin made me cold. It didn't. It made me feel too much. Marcus pushed me into this world, molded me like I was some weapon forged for war. And I played along. I hardened. I adapted. But it tore pieces off me, one mission at a time. And no, I'm not proud of who I became. How could I be?
There's only one thing I'd sell my soul for, and I mean that with every broken piece of me. To go back. Just once. To that moment where she could've been saved. To that fragile girl before the darkness found her. To wrap my arms around her and scream, Don't go down this path. Please, don't let them take you. But I didn't scream. I watched. I walked. I became exactly what they wanted.
A sharp ping cut through the heavy silence in the room, pulling me from the dark spiral of my thoughts. My eyes flicked to the phone screen—it was Lucas. He had finally replied.
His message appeared, each word carrying that familiar mix of concern and tough love: "Hey, it's okay. It's not a problem. I knew this mission would drive you a little crazy. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Don't forget to update me when you both get official. But stay collected—you know the consequences if you mess up."
I paused, letting the words sink in. Lucas always had a way of grounding me, even when the weight of everything threatened to drown me. A small smile—rare and fragile—crept onto my face. It was a flicker of something close to hope, buried beneath all the grime and shadows.
I started typing slowly, choosing my words carefully: "Yeah, I'm being careful. Nothing too obvious—just a hundred layers underneath, like always. I'll keep Marcus updated if anything new comes up or if I get any useful info. The latest was an attack on one of Dylan's bases, but I'm pretty sure Marcus already knows—that's Dustin's style."
I hit send and stared at the screen, waiting for those three little dots to appear on his side, the silent sign that he was reading, thinking, maybe even worrying.
After a moment, his reply came through: "Alright, I get that. But seriously, be careful. I don't want you dying at the hands of someone for a rookie mistake or getting caught because you slipped up. And the moment things get frisky—whatever that means—let me know. I'm here for you. Gotta get going now, heading to work."
His message made my chest tighten.
I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly, "Thanks. That means more than I can say. I'll keep you updated, no matter what. Stay safe at work, too, okay? Bye for now."
I waited forDylann to get done with this meeting and distracted myself with a few tasks I had to get done, which crossed my mind just now. Great, now I have actual work to do.
I waited about twenty more minutes before I heard the conference room door click open. I stood up, instinctively straightening my posture as Dylan stepped out, followed by a few other men in suits. Their faces were unreadable, sharp—seasoned.
Dylan shook their hands with that same calm, practiced ease they always had. I glanced toward the group, offering a subtle nod, but they didn't acknowledge me—just turned and slipped back inside the room without a word.
Dylan's eyes landed on me. He stopped a few steps away and asked, "Ready to go?"
I met his gaze for a moment and gave a small nod, forcing a bit of cheer into my voice. "Yeah," I said lightly, "let's go."
Dylan walked beside me, his coat swaying slightly with each step. He glanced over, casual but deliberate. "It's almost time for lunch. Have you looked up any places we could eat?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "I didn't know I was supposed to," I replied, a small laugh slipping through. "But now that you've mentioned it, I am getting kind of hungry. I could look something up, maybe?"
I tilted my head toward him slightly, curious if he had something in mind—or if this was his way of letting me decide.
But he shook his head, lips twitching into a small, knowing smile. "No need. I know a spot nearby. We can eat there."
We both turned down the hallway and headed toward the elevators again, our footsteps echoing in the quiet luxury of the upper floor.
I gave him a sideways glance, half teasing. "If you already knew a place, why did you ask me to look for restaurants?"
He gave a small shrug, like the answer was obvious. "Just wanted to see if anything caught your eye. Something you might be in the mood for."
Then, with a hint of confidence in his voice, he added, "But I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy the place I picked, too."
I raised a brow at him, smirking a little. "That confident, huh?"
He looked at me without missing a beat. "Always."
We stepped out of the building, and instead of heading toward the usual black car waiting by the curb, Dylan tilted his head in another direction.
"Let's walk," he said casually, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. "Antalya isn't meant to be seen through a car window. You'll miss the good parts."
"A walk?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's… uncharacteristically charming of you."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied with a smirk, already starting down the narrow stone path. "You'll see what I mean soon enough."
As we walked, the chaotic rhythm of the world began to soften. Antalya unfolded around us like a storybook—cobblestone streets lined with small, colorful houses, their shutters open to let in the sea breeze. Potted plants spilled from windowsills and front steps—lavender, bougainvillea, rosemary—all fragrant in the summer sun. The paint on some walls was chipped and worn, but it only added character, like the city had learned how to age gracefully.
There was no rush, no blaring horns or crowded noise. Just the sound of our footsteps, the occasional chirp of birds, and the laughter of children echoing from a nearby alleyway. The scent of fresh bread and old bookstores lingered in the air, blending with the sweetness of jasmine that hung low in the corners of buildings.
"This place doesn't feel real," I murmured, my fingers brushing the chipped stone wall beside me. "It's like something out of an old movie."
"Exactly why I wanted you to see it," Dylan replied. "It's easy to forget places like this still exist—slow, beautiful, untouched by hurry."
I glanced sideways at him. "You're full of surprises today."
He shrugged lightly. "You don't know everything about me yet."
We turned into a quiet square tucked between two rows of trees. At its edge stood a small restaurant with faded blue shutters and an old sign that read Gülhan's Kitchen in delicate, hand-painted lettering.
"This is where we're eating?" I asked, tilting my head curiously.
He nodded. "Trust me. The food's good, the tea's better, and Gülhan will probably judge your posture—but that's part of the charm."
I laughed as he held the door open, and I stepped into what felt less like a restaurant and more like someone's warm, lived-in home. The scent of garlic, cumin, and roasted vegetables hit me immediately, wrapping around my senses like a hug. The floors were worn but polished, the walls decorated with framed photos of smiling families and sun-soaked landscapes. A soft Turkish melody floated through the air.
"This is cozy," I said, taking it all in.
"She only has six tables," Dylan said, gesturing for me to take a seat by the window. "And she still insists on cooking everything herself."
"I like her already," I said with a low chuckle.e
As we settled in, the sunlight poured through the glass, casting golden lines across the table. Dylan rolled up his sleeves, revealing the light scar near his wrist, something I'd always noticed but never asked about. It slightly looked redder like the one on his eye. He picked up the menu, even though he didn't need it.
"Alright," I said, opening mine. "You said you'd let me choose."
"I did," he agreed. "But if I may recommend—the stuffed eggplants and lentil soup are the reason this place has survived two decades and a pandemic."
"Bold claim," I mused. "But I'll bite."
He waved the waiter over and ordered smoothly in Turkish. His voice dropped into something softer, more melodic as he spoke the language. It suited him.
"You're oddly confident about this lunch," I said, watching him. "Do you secretly co-own this place or something?"
"No," he replied, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "But let's just say I'm... well-connected. And I like sharing things I care about—with people who might understand."
I blinked. That almost sounded vulnerable. Before I could decide how to respond, he leaned forward and added with a wink, "Plus, it's hard to be charming on an empty stomach."
"Is that what this is? You trying to charm me?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said playfully. "But if you do happen to fall in love with the food—and only the food—I'll take the credit."
I laughed, then shook my head, more amused than I wanted to admit. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he said, pointing a finger toward me, "you're still here."
Our food arrived moments later—fragrant, warm, and plated with care. The eggplants were tender and rich with spices, and the lentil soup was comforting with every bite. The kind of meal that made you feel like someone had poured kindness into a bowl.
We ate quietly for a few minutes, and I found myself relaxing into the moment. The worries, the mission, the tension—they dulled at the edges, like they were part of another world entirely.
"I don't think I've had a lunch this peaceful in years," I said softly, wiping my hands with the cloth napkin.
"Peaceful can be dangerous," Dylan said thoughtfully. "It makes you forget how fast everything can change."
I met his eyes, surprised by the weight in his voice. There it was again—that flicker of something deeper beneath his calm.
"Then maybe it's worth it, just to remember how it feels," I said.
He gave a small nod, then looked out the window for a moment, his jaw tight with a thought he didn't voice.
I took a quiet sip of my drink, letting the flavors settle on my tongue—something citrusy, with a hint of mint that lingered cool at the back of my throat. The café was tucked into a quiet side street, shaded by flowering trees with soft pink blossoms drifting down like confetti. Light filtered through the branches, dappling the table between us in gold. It was the kind of place that whispered you were far from the chaos of everything.
"By the way, Dylan," I said, lowering my glass slowly, letting my fingers linger on the rim, "thanks for standing up for me back at HQ. That was… thoughtful."
His head tilted slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before his usual unreadable expression returned. But there was something gentler in the way his eyes settled on me—more open, like I'd caught him off guard in the best way.
"It's mutual respect, Danan. Don't mention it," he said, the corners of his mouth tugging upward just a bit more than his usual guarded smirk. He drummed his fingers lightly against the wooden table, like he needed to do something with his hands.
"Oh, I won't mention it," I replied, letting a teasing lilt slip into my voice. I leaned back slightly, raising a brow. "I'll just file it under unexpected acts of decency. Right next to almost charming."
He huffed a short, amused breath and shook his head, lifting his cup. "You make appreciation sound like an accusation."
I gave a faux-innocent shrug. "You make basic courtesy feel like spotting a unicorn."
"Maybe because you never let me off the hook," he muttered, his gaze narrowing, but his tone was laced with amusement.
"I didn't know you wanted off the hook."
"Depends who's holding the line," he said without missing a beat, his eyes meeting mine with a glint of something unspoken, something playful but deeper than jest.
That one made me blink, heat creeping into my cheeks before I quickly looked away, pretending to adjust my sleeve. I let out a soft laugh to cover it, shaking my head.
Outside the window, a breeze carried the scent of fresh bread and wildflowers. The old cobblestone street curved lazily past the café, lined with potted plants and pastel shutters. It felt like time slowed in this little corner of the world.
"You know," I murmured, tracing the condensation ring my glass had left on the table, "this place ly something. Not just the café. Antalya. There's this… stillness. Like it knows how to breathe."
Dylan turned his head to follow my gaze. He tapped the rim of his glass once before responding, almost like he was choosing his words carefully.
"It's quiet here. Honest. Makes you forget what you're running from."
I glanced back at him. "You running from something?"
He gave a slow shrug, eyes flickering toward the window again. "Everyone's running from something. Some of us are just better at hiding it."
I let the quiet between us stretch, but not uncomfortably. It was the kind of silence that felt shared. Like a conversation was still happening, just without words.
Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "Still," he said, a lopsided smile playing on his lips, "I did choose the better lunch spot."
My mouth dropped open in mock offense. "And just like that, the moment is gone."
"Can't let you get too comfortable," he said with a shrug, but the way he said it—low and almost fond—sent a flutter across my chest.
"You never do," I replied, lifting my glass again to hide the tiny smile I couldn't hold back.
His eyes didn't leave mine. And his smile didn't either.
We spent another hour at the restaurant, wrapped in a rhythm of teasing banter and half-shared laughs that didn't need to mean anything, yet somehow meant everything. It was strange—how natural it felt. Like we had done this before, many times over.
"You do realize," I said, stirring the last bit of ice in my drink, "that I've been carrying this mission on my back while you just look mysterious and broody."
Dylan smirked, setting down his glass. "That's funny—because from where I'm sitting, I'm the one doing damage control while you go rogue."
"Oh, so now I'm rogue?"
"You snuck into a guarded storage wing in your pajamas last week."
"Okay, that was one time," I said, laughing. "And I wore a coat."
"Barely," he shot back.
The teasing was easy. Familiar. But like sunlight filtering through old shutters, something quieter crept through as the conversation shifted. Talk of Marcus, of everything still ahead, and how much weight each day seemed to carry. It wasn't heavy when we spoke about it together—it just was. Like weather.
Dylan's gaze wandered to the window again. The streets outside were glowing in the mellow afternoon light, cobblestones painted gold. He watched it for a long beat before saying, "I used to come here a lot. With my uncle and my parents."
I looked at him, letting his voice guide the air between us.
"We'd spend days just walking around, drinking tea, exploring little antique shops. My father had a big reputation back home. But not here. Here we were anonymous. It was peaceful."
His voice caught faintly on that last word, and he went quiet for a breath.
"But after he died during my school years, it all kind of fell apart. My mother…" he paused, jaw tightening slightly, "…she passed not long after. Couldn't hold herself together without him. And then my uncle—he tried to hold things up for a while. For both of us, really. But now he's not well either."
My chest tightened at the honesty threading through his voice.
"This is the first time I've been here without any of them," he said. Then he glanced at me, soft but direct. "But I'm here with you."
There was a silence after that. Not uncomfortable—just full. Like the air had grown heavier with meaning.
I lowered my gaze briefly, letting the words settle before replying. "That's… a lot to carry," I said gently. "But thank you for telling me. And… I'm glad you're not alone this time."
He gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable for a second—then the corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something like it.
"So," I added, tone lightening just enough to bring the moment back to the surface, "was this your master plan all along? Bringing me to your childhood vacation spot so I'd go easier on you during mission briefings?"
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Maybe. Or maybe I just thought you'd like it."
"I do," I said, holding his gaze. "More than I expected."
His smile lingered this time, softer, easier.
And in that quiet, sun-dappled restaurant on a tucked-away street in Antalya, something between us shifted. Not spoken. Not defined. But real.
Dylan paid the bill without a word, sliding a few notes under the small porcelain dish as he stood up and motioned for me to follow. I grabbed my coat and stepped outside with him, blinking against the soft amber light that had settled across the street like a warm blanket. The day had folded itself into the arms of early evening, and the gentle breeze that met us carried the scent of sea salt and fresh stone-baked bread from a nearby vendor.
Dylan had draped his tux coat loosely over his shoulders now, sleeves unfilled, as if he couldn't be bothered to slip it on properly. It gave him a certain careless elegance, like he was walking out of a black-and-white photograph, half-shadow and charm.
We walked side by side along the cobbled street, our footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet hush that comes right before dusk. Lamps along the walls of quaint buildings flickered to life, golden halos catching on flowering vines above us.
Then, just as we passed the corner near a tucked-away alley, an old beggar woman sitting cross-legged on a woven mat glanced up at us with kind, weathered eyes. She looked no older than time itself, wrapped in layers of mismatched shawls, a string of wooden beads clutched in her hands.
She smiled softly and said, her voice husky but melodic, "What a lovely couple… You both brighten each other's eyes. And truly, you compliment each other's steps—like music and echo."
My eyes widened, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Oh no, ma'am—you've got us wrong," I stammered, holding out a hand instinctively, "we're not a—"
Before I could even finish, Dylan had already stepped forward, slipping a folded note into the woman's small woven cup. He dipped his head respectfully and gave her a smile.
"Thank you," he said, his voice gentle but steady. "I'll make sure not to let go of her."
The words caught me completely off guard.
My lips parted, but no sound came out. The old woman gave a slow nod, her smile deepening as if she'd seen a hundred stories like ours play out before. And perhaps she had.
Dylan turned back to me casually, as though he hadn't just dropped a quiet grenade of implication in front of me.
"Shall we?" he said, walking on as if the air hadn't just shifted.
I followed, unsure if I should laugh or look away or ask what exactly he meant. But I said nothing. Because somehow, deep down—beneath the playful banter, the guarded conversations, and the missions that pulled us into tangled danger—I didn't want him to let go either.
But as we walked farther from the old woman and her words lingered like perfume in the air, I couldn't hold it in. My intrusive thoughts tripped over my reason and burst out before I could stop them.
I turned slightly toward him, brows furrowed."Why would you say that?" I asked, trying to sound casual—but it came out more like a demand wrapped in disbelief.
Dylan didn't stop walking. He just chuckled—low and warm, like the way firewood crackles before it catches.
"What bad would it do," he said, glancing sideways at me, "to make an old woman happy by thinking she'd spotted a couple?" He shrugged with maddening ease. "It keeps her heart at peace. What's that got to do with our current status? It was a harmless lie."
He paused for the briefest second, and then, with a smirk curling at the edge of his lips, added—
"And you can't deny you'd want me to… not let go."
The air in my lungs stalled, caught somewhere between a scoff and a confession. My heart beat faster—not because of what he said exactly, but because of how easily he said it. Like it was no big deal. Like it was just the truth wearing a smirk.
I looked ahead, avoiding his eyes as I tried to collect mine.
"Bold of you to assume," I muttered, heat prickling at the back of my neck.But I didn't deny it.
We wandered farther into the heart of the town, the streets beginning to glow gold under the lowering sun. The laughter of children echoed from somewhere nearby—light, carefree, untethered. I followed the sound until the narrow cobbled path opened up into a quiet stretch of beach, the city's edge cradled by the sea.
A few kids were splashing in the water, their shrieks of delight rising with the salty breeze. The tide lapped gently at the sand, soft and slow, like it knew the day was beginning to bow out.
We walked closer to the shoreline, shoes crunching softly against the grainy earth. The sea air curled around us, cool and clean, bringing with it the scent of salt and driftwood. Just past the gentle curve of the beach, there were benches scattered along a paved overlook.
Dylan motioned to one, and we sat down without a word. It was the kind of silence that didn't ask to be filled—the kind that slipped between two people who didn't need to explain why they stayed.
The sky blushed orange and pink, bleeding into the horizon in strokes that looked almost too perfect to be real. The sun dipped slowly, casting a shimmer across the water. I hugged my arms around myself, not from cold, but from the way moments like these always made me feel—like something was shifting quietly inside.
Dylan leaned back against the bench, one arm stretched along the backrest. The breeze tugged at the hem of his coat, and a strand of hair fell slightly over his brow. He looked out at the ocean. i slowly spoke.
I watched the kids splashing each other in the shallow waves, their joy floating into the air like bubbles—fragile, fleeting, but bright. The water glistened in the amber light, and the breeze tasted like salt and sun-dried flowers. I didn't realize how tightly my hands were clenched in my lap until the wind brushed against them.
"Watching these kids play… being so carefree," I said quietly, my gaze still on them. "It's healing, isn't it?"
Dylan turned to look at me, but said nothing.
"The amount of roughness we both had to see in our own separate lives—it was a lot." I swallowed. "Too much for any one person, let alone kids our age back then."
There was a pause. The silence felt different now—not awkward, but weighty. Like both of us were standing on the edge of something, not sure whether to speak or fall into it.
"I used to think pain made people harder," I continued. "And maybe it did, for a while. But I think it also made me… careful. Quiet. And angry, too."
I exhaled slowly.
"Those nights at the brothel… they felt endless. Being told when to stand, when to smile, when to serve—and knowing no one was ever coming to save me. No matter how much I prayed, begged, or screamed in my head, nobody came." I gave a bitter little laugh. "After a while, I stopped waiting."
Dylan was still silent, but something in his face had shifted—his eyes darker, his brows drawn just slightly.
"And then school…" I said. "I wanted it to be a second chance. I told myself I'd blend in, maybe even find a piece of normal. But then that day—you and your friends. The taunts. The laughter." I finally turned to him. "You humiliated me. And it wasn't just cruel, Dylan. It was like being told I didn't deserve to exist in a world where people smiled."
The words hung in the air, harsh and tender both. I hadn't planned to say them—not like this—but once they started, they tumbled out of me like a truth too long buried.
Dylan ran a hand over his jaw, then through his hair, exhaling through his nose. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Rough with guilt.
"Ruth…" he started, then stopped. He sat back, eyes scanning the waves like they could give him better words. "I remember that day. I remember the things we said. And I swear to you, not a night goes by I don't wish I could erase it."
I stayed still, watching him.
"Back then," he said, voice shaking slightly, "I was stupid. And weak. And maybe I joined in because I thought if I laughed, no one would see through me. But I saw you. Even back then. I just didn't have the courage to admit it."
He turned to face me now, fully, leaning in closer.
"And now, knowing what you went through… the brothel, your parents, the hell Marcus put you through…" His throat worked around the words. "Ruth, I don't know how you survived it all, but you did. And somehow, you still have this strength in you, this fire… this grace. You're the strongest person I know. And I hate that I was one of the reasons you had to become that strong."
My breath caught a little. The world suddenly felt still, like everything—the wind, the waves, the shifting evening light—was holding its breath with me.
"I don't need you to fix anything," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I just needed you to see me. Not what I was, not what people turned me into. Just me."
He reached over slowly, gently taking one of my hands—his warmth grounding, hesitant but real.
"I do see you, Ruth," he said, voice barely audible. "And I swear to God, I've never looked away since I did."
Something twisted in my chest, aching and tender. I looked at his hand holding mine, at the quiet pleading in his eyes, at the softness that had pushed through all his careful control.
And I broke.
Or maybe I healed.
I didn't even realize we were leaning in.
It was as if the world had slowly faded away—the sound of the waves, the laughter of children in the distance, the golden-pink hue of the sunset bleeding into the ocean sky. The only thing I could feel was him. Dylan. Sitting so close, his presence warm and steady, his eyes searching mine like they were trying to read something I hadn't spoken aloud.
There was a stillness between us. A pull. A question hanging in the air.
And then—like a breath caught between hope and hesitation—our lips met.
It wasn't passionate at first. It was soft, hesitant, like we were testing the waters of something neither of us had dared to imagine could happen. His lips brushed mine gently, almost reverently, as if I were something fragile and he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch.
But I didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
Instead, I leaned into him—into the warmth of it, the comfort, the unspoken understanding.
His hand came up slowly, fingers grazing the edge of my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek with such careful intention it almost undid me. There was no rush, no hunger—only patience. His thumb paused near the corner of my lips, like he was memorizing them. Like this moment meant something to him.
And then the kiss deepened.
He tilted his head slightly, and I felt his breath mix with mine, felt the way his lips moved now with more purpose still tender, still achingly slow, but laced with emotion. Like he'd been holding back for far too long.
I let out the faintest sigh into him, my hand reaching for his chest, resting just above his heart. I could feel it beating strong, quick like mine. I felt safe in that rhythm, in his touch. My fingers slid to the back of his neck, threading through the short strands of his hair, and I felt him shiver under my touch, like even that broke something inside him.
The air between us was thick with emotion regret, longing, understanding. It wasn't just a kiss.
It was everything we hadn't said.All the things we'd buried.All the nights we'd pretended not to care.All the pain we had survived.And the comfort we'd quietly started finding in each other.
When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together, and for a moment neither of us opened our eyes. The silence wasn't awkward; it was sacred. Like we had just shared a secret neither of us was ready to name.
His lips lingered near mine even after the kiss had ended, like he wasn't ready to break the spell, or maybe he didn't know how. His breath trembled against my skin, warm and uneven, like he was holding something back, something heavy.
Then, in a voice that sounded like it cracked agup at him slowly. His eyes weren't just guilty they were tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that came from years of running, hiding, burying parts of yourself so deep that you forget they ever existed.
"I don't mean just for back then," he continued, his thumb brushing the side of my face with a reverence that startled me."Not just the things I said in school. Or the things I didn't say."
He paused, exhaling hard like it hurt.
"I'm sorry for seeing you and pretending I didn't. For knowing deep down you were breaking and doing nothing. For letting the world chew you up while I stood on the sidelines, untouched. Protected. Privileged."
I felt something crack open inside me. A quiet, old wound shifting beneath his words.
He looked away for a second, his jaw tightening, then he turned back to me, his gaze glassy. "You didn't deserve any of it. Not the brothel. Not the pain. Not the silence afterward. I should've done something. I should've been something. And now " His voice caught, his hand falling from my cheek to my lap, like he couldn't trust himself to hold me anymore."Now I don't know if I even deserve to sit here and want you the way I do."
I reached for his hand before he could pull it away completely, holding it tightly, grounding it against my chest.
"Do you think I haven't wanted to hate you?" I said, barely a whisper. "Do you think I didn't curse your name some nights when I had no one, nothing, just memories that felt like knives?"
He blinked, guilt thick in his eyes, but I didn't let go.
"But I also remembered the boy who looked at me like I was more than the girl people whispered about. The boy who hesitated. The boy who knew, even when he didn't act."
A tear slipped down the side of my cheek, and he reached up without thinking, brushing it away like it burned him to see it fall.
"Maybe none of us deserve this," I murmured. "But here we are, still wanting. Still aching."
He leaned forward again, forehead pressed to mine, voice breaking."I ache for you, every damn day now. And not just out of guilt—because it's you. Because even after all this time, I still see something in you that makes me wish I were better."
My breath caught.
"Then be better," I whispered. "Not for me. Not to fix the past. Just… so you can finally let yourself feel. And maybe I can too."
His lips hovered near mine again, but this time he didn't kiss me.
Not yet.
His eyes searched mine longing, sorrow, and something fragile beneath it.
Hope.
And in that moment, beneath the bruised hues of the evening sky and the hush of the sea, nothing else existed but two broken people trying, aching, reaching for a beginning that neither of them thought they were allowed to have.
And maybe that made it sacred.
He stared at me for a moment longer, like he was trying to memorize every line of my face in this light. Then, without another word, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead—gentle, grounding, almost more intimate than the kiss itself.
And that was the moment I realized: This wasn't just a spark. This was a flame quietly starting to grow in the places we'd thought long since burned to ash.