The hoodie was oversized on her. Of course it was; it was hers, 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.
Now, the hoodie smelled like Zaria (his sister) and gunpowder, reminding him of all the chaos that had ensued.
She pulled the sleeves over her wrists, trying to hide her scars. "Thanks," she said quietly, avoiding his eyes. He grunted. "Don't thank me. It was hers first."
Then she asked softly, "Is she not…?"
"Alive," he snapped. "Just not here."
Her relief annoyed him. Why did it matter to her?
The sleeves were too long, and her pants brushed against her ankles. They fit her fine; she wasn't short, just not as tall as his sister. But she surprisingly looked cute in them. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it made him pause for a second. She seemed softer now, less like a scared animal and more like someone trying to piece herself back together.
Her hair was still damp and tied up in a bun. The hoodie bunched up near her elbows, showing her unease. She glanced around the table and then back at him. Looking less scared, she moved toward the chair he pointed to.
"Sit," he said firmly but not unkindly.
She quietly obeyed.
Silence fell between them.
He handed her a plate with an omelet and some toast, then a cup of tea. She nodded slightly and picked up a fork. They ate in silence for a minute or two. It felt familiar but also a bit strange.
She took a bite of the omelet, chewing slowly. Then she looked up and said, "This is… good."
He didn't reply.
Yet that single word affected him more than it should have. He liked the way she said, "This is good," but somehow, he fell back into being rude, even though he didn't want to be. Next, she tried the tea. Her expression remained neutral, but she did not push it away.
"Is this Turkish?" she asked quietly.
He nodded once, trying to be polite, and added, "You spoke in Turkish yesterday, so I guessed."
Her eyebrows went up for a moment. Maybe she was impressed or just curious.
She took another sip. "I prefer coffee," she said, almost like she was confessing something.
His lips twitched a little. "I don't have coffee."
"I figured."
There was a pause. Then, surprisingly, she locked eyes with him, like she was impressed by his kindness.
Her gaze was steady.
"Thanks," she said. "For... everything."
He didn't like how those words shifted something inside him. It felt like she was reaching for something he hadn't shared.
"I didn't do it for thanks," he replied, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. When did he start acting like the hero? When did he care if a stranger was freezing?
She nodded and looked down at her plate.
He watched her eat for a bit before turning back to his own food. She was quiet, lost in her thoughts, but she wasn't shaking or hiding away.
She was just there.
And whether he liked it or not, that was important.
They finished eating in silence. No awkward pauses or stumbling over words, just the sound of their utensils clinking and a few lingering glances. She didn't say much, and that was fine.
Sometimes silence says more than words. He didn't say anything about the screams either; he didn't mention that she'd been screaming in her sleep. He just wrapped up his meal.
Afterward, he got up to clear the empty plates and mugs from the table. Just then, she looked up and reached out. "I'll take care of those," she said.
He paused, raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head a bit. "Seriously?" he asked, almost grinning.
Her eyes went wide as she recalled the rice boiling over, the smoke filling the place, and her frantic attempts to save dinner.
He didn't need to say much; they both knew what she was remembering. She looked down, biting her lips and fidgeting with her fingers. A wave of shame washed over her.
"I won't mess this up," she mumbled. "It's simple... I can handle this." Then she added quietly,
"I just... don't know how to cook."
There she was, laying it all out there. She wasn't looking for pity; it was more like she was showing a weakness. She still wouldn't meet his eyes and kept fidgeting, like someone caught in a fib, even though she hadn't lied. She just didn't want to feel useless.
He didn't crack jokes or tease her. He just nodded and offered her the mugs and plates.
She looked up at him, surprised. He didn't push her; he just made the offer. She took the plates and mugs like they were heavier than they were and headed to the sink, her sleeves rolled up and her expression serious but determined.
He watched her for a moment, sleeves bunched at her elbows, the soft hoodie hugging her frame, her posture straight but focused. Then he turned back to wipe down the table.
No words were exchanged; only the background clatter of plates and the steady sound of water running from the faucet filled the space. His mind raced with questions: "Who is she? What happened last night? What is she running from? What was going on in the woods? Why me?"
When her eyes finally met his, he didn't see a criminal. Instead, he saw exhaustion and pain, like someone who had endured far too much but had said far too little.
Was this some kind of trap? Had he stepped into something bigger than he realized? And why did he care about her? He wasn't the type to get attached, not in this place, not in any city, not in his world. His thoughts were fragmented as he grappled with his feelings.
Yet here he was, allowing her to wear clothes he'd never let anyone else touch. He tightened his grip on the rag in his hand.
"No way. Don't think about it. Don't let yourself feel anything. Just clear the table," he told himself.
And maybe, just maybe, he would finally ask her the question he should have asked the night before.
The last plate softly clinked against the drying rack in the quiet kitchen. She stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, with damp hair sticking to her temple.