Without even thinking, he grabbed another couple of eggs and whipped up a second omelet with the same stuff and more toast. It felt familiar.
He had no clue what she liked because he never bothered to ask. But something in him thought this was a decent guess. Still, another voice in his head told him not to worry about it. But here he was, cooking the same meal for her that he liked. Why was that?
He didn't really have an answer, so he turned his attention to the kettle. He filled it halfway with water and put it on the back burner. His green enamel mug, chipped at the rim, was sitting there waiting for him. Inside was a black tea bag, ready to steep, just the way he preferred it: strong and bitter.
His gaze drifted to the shelf above the sink, where a small tin of Turkish tea sat, something he had bought months ago. He never drank it and didn't care for how it brewed, but it was strong and of good quality.
She spoke in Turkish, he reminded himself. 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?"
He paused, looking at the red-labeled tin in his hand. "She's not my guest, and she's definitely not my responsibility. Just a stranger who burned rice, screamed in her sleep, and hadn't managed to say a complete sentence to him since he gave her the cot."
"Why am I even thinking about what she likes? She's not mine. (Not mine? Seriously, why am I even considering this?) I didn't want her here."
He tightened his grip on the tin for a moment and then let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. After a moment, he opened the tin, scooped out enough for a small cup, and grabbed a clear glass mug he didn't use much. He set both mugs on the counter, two mugs, two breakfasts; a choice he didn't want to overthink. He was just making breakfast while someone stood quietly and watched him.
She didn't make a sound, not a creak in the floorboards or a breath too loud. Just standing there in the shadow between the hallway and kitchen, half-hidden, her eyes on him like she couldn't believe this was real.
He kept going, unaware of her presence.
Toasting the bread, flipping it in the pan like it was just another day.
Pouring the tea and letting it steep for the right amount of time.
She didn't say a word.
Just watched.
It might have been the way he moved, or perhaps it was the ordinary feel of the scene, which was strikingly different from the life she had just left behind. In that moment, her mind drifted to memories of her father after her mother passed away. He would wake up early to prepare breakfast for them, always sharing fond stories and reminding her of the love and warmth they once shared.
Then, as quietly as she had shown up, she slipped away.
After a few minutes, he grabbed both plates and set them on the table. As he made his way down the hallway to wake her up, he stopped at the doorway.
She was already awake.
Standing by the window near the cot, her face was still a little damp from washing up. Her hair was thrown together messily at her neck, and that scarf around it didn't do much to hide the tired look in her eyes.
She was scanning the room for something. One hand tugged at a tear in her sleeve while the other rested on the small wooden cupboard by the wall. She wasn't rummaging through it, just looking around.
That's when he realized she was searching for something to put on.
Her clothes weren't completely wrecked, but they were torn and dirty, hanging on her awkwardly after last night's escape. He noticed how she kept pulling the fabric away from her skin, like it just wasn't comfortable anymore.
She wanted to feel covered, safe, and comfy.
For a second, he thought about her situation. His clothes would be too big for her anyway.
Then, he remembered the wardrobe in the second room that hadn't been touched since his sister was last here.
He turned and walked over to the storage cabinet at the back of the cabin. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a soft navy hoodie and a pair of grey pajama pants. They were clean, warm, and just the right size—simple and feminine.
He brought the clothes back to her. When she looked up, their eyes met.
She seemed surprised he had brought her anything. She probably didn't expect him to say anything at all.
He handed her the clothes. "They might fit," he said. "Better than what you've got on."
She just stared at the clothes and then back at him, unsure of what to do.
"You can change if you want," he added. "Breakfast is ready. Come when you're done."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed back into the kitchen.
He wanted her to take her time and decide for herself. After everything that happened last night, she deserved that.
He sat down at the kitchen table. The cabin was quiet, aside from the occasional crackle from the fire and the soft sounds of cutlery as he picked at his food.
He plopped down at the kitchen table. The cabin was pretty quiet, except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the clatter of his cutlery as he nibbled on his food.
He didn't glance down the hallway yet, but he knew she'd come out soon. She needed to eat.
He heard her footsteps approaching, soft and cautious. When he finally looked up, a wave of emotions hit him.
There she was, barefoot and wearing that navy hoodie that used to belong to his sister. He had dug it out from the back of a drawer months ago and tucked it away in his mind. It always looked better on her. The thought of his sister stung; he hadn't seen her in nearly two months.
The hoodie was oversized on her. Of course it was taken from his twin's stuff when she last visited, claiming he'd get lonely on his own. "You'll get lonely," she had said, like loneliness was the worst thing ever.