The morning sun filtered through linen curtains, casting golden lines across the villa's floor. The air was soft with the smell of rosewater and fresh bread. In Selin's room, everything felt slower. Warmer. Sacred.
Nilay bustled around the room with practiced hands and a heart full of intention.
"Sit," she said gently, guiding Selin onto the vanity stool. "Let me."
Selin nodded, letting her hair fall from the loose bun she slept in. Nilay stood behind her, carefully running her fingers through the strands like she was handling something holy.
"I always imagined this," Nilay murmured, voice a whisper against the sound of birds outside. "Maybe not like this. But this part—I always knew I'd do."
Selin smiled into the mirror, watching the older woman's reflection. "It's not the fairytale version."
Nilay caught her eyes and smiled back. "Fairytales are overrated. This is real. And it's yours."
She brought out a small, worn box wrapped in silk. Inside was a delicate veil—lace with gold-threaded edges, carefully folded and scented with lavender.
"I kept this for years," she said softly, unfolding it. "Just in case Alekos ever found someone who'd understand him."
Selin blinked, throat tightening. "You think I do?"
"I think you're the only one who ever did."
Nilay placed the veil gently over her head, adjusting it so it framed her face just right. Then she stepped back, admiring her.
"You're breathtaking."
Selin didn't look like the woman who fainted in a hospital hallway or cried into a pillow for days. She looked… full. Not perfect. Not untouched. But radiant in a way that only comes from surviving.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Nilay kissed her forehead. "Now go. Stand with him. Whatever this is—love, duty, desperation—it's built on something stronger than all of that. Faith."
Selin stood slowly, smoothing the sides of her dress. Her fingers trembled around the edge of her veil.
"Do you think he's nervous?"
Nilay grinned. "He's pacing the hallway like he did before his high school debate. His tie is crooked and he won't let me fix it."
Selin laughed, and it was soft, hopeful.
Maybe this wasn't how she dreamed of marriage. But it was how she dreamed of being seen. Held. Chosen.
Selin stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the edge of her veil again. For the third time. Her fingers kept fumbling, though Nilay had already made it perfect.
She turned when she heard the knock.
One soft tap.
Then another.
She knew it was him.
"Alekos," she said, her voice barely louder than a breath.
He cracked the door open, eyes peeking through. "Can I…?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "Come in."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The room felt smaller now. Not suffocating—just… full. Full of all the things they hadn't said.
His eyes trailed over her—the veil, the simple white dress, the small gold bangles on her wrists. He didn't speak.
"You're staring," she said.
"You look…" He paused, tried again. "Like the version of you I saw when we were seventeen and I thought— 'This is it. I'll never see anything more beautiful.' And I was right."
Selin gave a small smile, her heart suddenly much too loud.
"You clean up well too," she said, trying to keep it light.
Alekos tugged at his collar. "My mom tried to fix my tie. I escaped."
"I heard."
They both laughed quietly.
Then the silence came again, thick but safe.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," she admitted. "But I'm here."
He nodded slowly, then reached out—fingers brushing hers.
Selin looked up at him, her voice a little unsteady. "You still sure about this?"
Alekos didn't answer right away. His thumb grazed the edge of her palm.
"I'm not sure about anything in the world right now," he said, honestly. "Except that you're the only person I'd stand next to for something like this."
A beat passed.
Then he added, "Even if it's not forever."
Selin swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "Even if it's not forever… it matters now."
He leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead to hers.
No kisses. No promises. Just presence.
And in that presence, a thousand what-ifs dissolved into one shared breath.
Outside, someone called for them.
It was time.
Alekos stepped back first, eyes never leaving hers.
"Let's go get married," he whispered.
Selin nodded, cheeks damp but smiling. "Let's."
He turned to leave when Selin called out softly, "Wait."
Alekos froze mid-step.
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the crooked knot near his collarbone. "That tie's going to embarrass both of us."
He smirked.
Selin reached up, gently undoing the mess of fabric at his neck. Her fingers moved carefully—precise but familiar, like they'd done this a hundred times before, even if they never had.
"You always get flustered before important things," she said quietly.
"Do I?"
"You do. Remember when we had to present that science project and you knocked over the beaker?"
"I remember you laughing while I burned my fingers."
"You were wearing gloves."
He chuckled under his breath, staring down at her as she focused on the knot, tightening it and smoothing the collar flat.
"There," she said. "Not bad. Now you look like someone who knows what he's doing."
He held her gaze for a long second. "Do you think I do?"
Selin's smile softened. "No. But I think we'll figure it out."
She brushed invisible dust off his shoulders. Their hands brushed. Neither moved away.
The call for them echoed again down the hall.
Selin finally stepped back.
Alekos breathed out slowly. "That was the most intimate tie adjustment of my life."
Selin grinned. "Don't make it weird."
He laughed, his nerves easing.
And then, together, they stepped toward the door—not with certainty, but with quiet resolve.
The ceremony was held in the small stone chapel at the edge of town. No stained glass, no choirs. Just whitewashed walls, a wooden altar, and the faint scent of lilies drifting through cracked windows.
Selin stood at the front of the chapel, veil trailing behind her like the memory of something softer. Her hands trembled, but she didn't hide them. Not today.
She glanced at the pews.
Two people sat in the front row —Nilay and Altan Csepel.
That was it.
No bridesmaids. No childhood friends. No distant relatives. No one from her past. her mother… her mother had died before she even started high school. And her father had stopped answering her calls years ago, right after her mother's death and refusal to return to Istanbul. She hadn't seen him since she was seventeen. The only thing he left was the villa she called home.
So today, it was just them.
Just this.
Alekos entered from the side room, guided by the quiet steps of the priest. He wore a plain navy suit. The tie she had fixed. And a solemnity that made him look older than his years.
He walked toward her.
No music played.
No one clapped.
Only the quiet creak of floorboards beneath his feet.
When they met in front of the altar, they didn't say anything at first. Just stood there—two people who'd known each other through scraped knees and sleepless nights and every scar in between.
The priest's words were brief. There were no elaborate blessings. Just the essentials:
"Do you, Alekos Csepel, take Selin Yildiz to be your lawfully wedded wife, in hardship and in hope, in health and through trials?"
Alekos didn't hesitate. "I do."
"And you, Selin Yildiz, take Alekos Csepel to be your lawfully wedded husband, in uncertainty and in faith, in the presence of God?"
Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I do."
No rings. Just joined hands and two simple words.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
A long pause followed.
They just stood there, still holding hands, awkwardly unsure what to do next.
Alekos tilted his head slightly. Selin glanced at him—and back at the priest. And then at the pews.
Nilay raised both her eyebrows and gave a subtle—but unmistakable—kiss her nod.
Selin's eyes widened slightly. Alekos blinked.
Then he gave the smallest smile. Half nervous. Half amused.
He stepped forward, slow and careful, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her forehead.
Then, after a second's hesitation, their lips met—soft and brief. Not passionate, not planned. Just… real.
When they pulled back, they were both blushing.
Nilay, however, looked deeply satisfied, who had tears streaming down her cheeks and her hand clasped over her heart.
Altan's expression was unreadable—but for a single moment, as Selin looked his way, he gave her the smallest of nods.
Acknowledgment. Maybe even pride.
Outside, the chapel doors swung open to a soft wind and scattered petals from a nearby olive tree.
Alekos leaned in close and whispered, "We did it."
Selin exhaled shakily. "Yeah. We did."
Alekos gently touched the small of her back. She turned to him, uncertain of what came next.
He leaned in and whispered, "You okay?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
They walked down the aisle—awkward, quiet, hand in hand.
Married.
Outside, the sky was pale and overcast.
A breeze stirred the veil at her shoulders.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Selin felt something solid beneath her feet.
Not certainty.
But peace.
They had returned to the Villa.
The villa was quiet. Too quiet.
No music. No guests. No laughter echoing in the halls. Just the faint tick of the hallway clock and the sound of their own breathing.
Selin stepped into the living room first, veil trailing behind her like it hadn't realized the day was over. Alekos followed, slow and uncertain, shutting the door behind them like he was afraid it might break.
They stood there for a moment—two friends in wedding rings.
Selin's hands were still clenched around the folds of her dress. Alekos rubbed the back of his neck.
"I, uh... I can make you some tea. If you want."
She nodded, barely meeting his eyes. "Yeah. Tea sounds good."
He vanished into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. The clink of mugs and the rush of the kettle filled the silence.
Selin remained frozen in the center of the room. She hadn't really noticed how dim the villa was. The hallway light flickered slightly—bulb going out again—and her dress suddenly felt like it weighed ten kilos.
When Alekos returned, he carried two mugs—one said "Athens Marathon 2007," the other had a sleepy cartoon donkey.
She blinked at the donkey.
"They were the only clean ones," he said quickly.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips before she took the mug from him. Their fingers brushed, and both of them pulled back too fast.
She sat on the edge of her couch, setting the tea down beside her untouched. He stood a few feet away, then sat—on the far end of the same couch. As if they were co-workers. As if they hadn't just said vows.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
"I think I'm still waiting to wake up," she admitted.
He nodded. "Me too."
Silence stretched between them, thicker than anything they'd said that day.
"I'm going to change," she finally said, rising slowly.
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
She walked into the hallway, the dress rustling around her. Once inside the bathroom, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She faced the mirror. Her eyeliner had faded, her lips were dry, her chest was flushed with heat. And the zipper—God, the zipper.
She reached behind her, trying to tug it down.
Nothing.
She twisted. Yanked.
Still nothing.
Her breath caught. She tried again. And again. The zipper refused to budge, like it was mocking her.
Her throat tightened. Of course. Of course this would happen tonight.
She cracked the door open, cheeks burning. "Alekos?"
A moment passed. Then: "Yeah?"
"I... can't open the dress."
Silence.
Then footsteps.
He appeared in the doorway, blinking. His eyes found hers, then darted away, to the floor, to the light switch, to literally anywhere else.
"Can you just... help me with the zipper?"
He nodded, cautiously stepping inside.
She turned around, the dress shimmering in the warm light. "It's stuck halfway."
He approached slowly, like the back of her gown was a bomb about to detonate. His fingers brushed her spine as he searched for the zipper. She flinched—but not because of him. Just because everything was too much.
"Sorry," he murmured.
"It's not you," she whispered.
He found the zipper. Gave a careful tug. It didn't move.
He tried again, slower this time. It slipped down, inch by inch, until the fabric finally loosened around her ribs. She could breathe again.
"There," he said, stepping back instantly.
She clutched the front of her dress to her chest and turned slightly. "Thank you."
He nodded, already backing out of the room. "I'll be in the living room."
She changed quickly into an oversized cotton shirt. Something familiar. Something that didn't dig into her skin or demand too much.
When she came out, Alekos was sitting on the couch again, sipping tea.
She sat beside him—closer this time.
He spoke first, voice low. "I'm not expecting anything tonight. I just... want you to feel safe."
Her eyes stung. "I'm not scared of you."
"I know."
She hesitated, then whispered, "I thought I'd feel something more. I thought I'd feel different."
"Do you regret it?"
She looked at him.
"No," she said. "But I do feel... unfinished."
"Maybe that's okay," he said gently. "Maybe we'll build it from here."
He held out his hand.
She stared at it for a long moment—then took it.
They sat like that, side by side on the couch, tea growing cold, hands clasped.
Nothing happened.
And yet somehow, everything did.
He closed the door quietly behind him. For a second, he just stood there, staring at the wall, breathing like he'd just run a marathon.
God.
He ripped at the knot in his tie, growling when it refused to come loose. It wasn't the tie's fault—it was her. It was her voice, soft and unsure, asking him for help. It was the way her back felt under his hand—warm and smooth and so heartbreakingly real.
He finally yanked the tie free, flinging it across the room.
His dress shirt followed, buttons popping open one by one with trembling fingers. He couldn't breathe. His chest felt tight, his skin too hot. He hadn't even seen anything—just the curve of her shoulder blade, the way she shivered when his knuckles grazed her spine.
He hadn't meant to think it, but he had.
What if I ripped that dress off her? What if I pressed my mouth to the dip of her back and didn't stop?
Alekos cursed, dragging a hand through his hair.
He shouldn't be thinking about her like this—not now. Not after everything she'd been through. Not after what they'd promised tonight.
But his body didn't care about promises.
He stumbled into the bathroom, slammed the door, and turned the shower on cold. Still, his skin burned.
The water hit him, shocking and brutal, but it didn't help. His body was already hard, throbbing with the kind of hunger he hadn't felt in years. And all of it—for her.
Selin.
He tried not to think of her. But his mind betrayed him.
Her lips. Her waist. The sound of her breath.
He pressed his forehead to the cool tile, gritting his teeth. But the tension built until he couldn't take it. His hand moved on its own, desperate and ashamed, as he imagined her name on his lips, her skin against his mouth, her back arching beneath him.
When he came, it was with a soft, broken moan—her name tangled in it like a confession.
Selin.
His knees nearly gave out.
Water poured down his face as he tried to breathe again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Was he falling in love with her?
Or was he just a man starving for something he didn't know how to ask for?
He hadn't slept. Not even for a moment.
The guilt crawled under his skin, restless, taunting. Like he'd crossed some invisible line even though he hadn't touched her in the way his mind wanted to.
He had helped himself—silently, shamefully—while whispering her name like it was holy.
And somehow, that made it worse.
As the sun crept past the edges of the curtains, the golden light hit his face. The warmth of it mocked how cold he felt inside.
He got out of bed slowly, dragging a sweater over his shoulders. The house was silent. Too silent. It felt cold and warm at the same time—like it didn't know how to hold them.
He figured she was still asleep.
She should be. After everything.
They hadn't even said goodnight properly.
But when he turned into the hallway and stepped toward the kitchen, he stopped.
There she was.
Curled up in a corner of the couch like something soft and breakable. Her knees tucked under her chin, her messy hair in a bun. She wore pale blue pajamas with little Stitch characters all over them. She looked… small. Cozy. Unbothered.
She was reading.
A real book—tattered and thick—held between delicate hands.
He blinked.
"Good morning," she said softly, not even looking up.
The sound of her voice jolted him back to reality.
"Morning," he murmured, trying to clear the gravel from his throat.
She finally looked up.
Her eyes lingered on his face for a second too long.
"You okay?" she asked.
No.
No, he wasn't okay.
He hadn't stopped thinking about the way her back had felt under his palm. The way his body had betrayed him. The way he'd moaned her name into the empty bathroom like a lovesick fool.
But he couldn't tell her that.
So he lied.
"Yeah," he said with a weak smile. "Just… tired."
She nodded, but he could tell she didn't buy it. There was something in her eyes—concern, maybe. Or worse, understanding.
He walked past her toward the kitchen, pretending he didn't notice how fast his heart was beating.
Pretending her pajama pants weren't riding up just enough to show her legs.
Pretending that he was still in control.