Nilay
We left just after sunrise.
The sky was pink and blue, the kind of cotton-colored calm that makes you think the world might still be kind after all.
I slung my bag into the backseat and looked over at Alekos—standing smugly beside his motorcycle, helmet already strapped on, keys dangling from his fingers like he was waiting for my approval.
He didn't get it.
"You are not riding that thing next to me the entire way," I said, arms folded.
"Mamá…" he groaned.
"I'm serious, Alexi," I snapped, pointing a finger at him. "You have a perfectly working spine and a girl who just cried herself to sleep in your bed. Do not make me bury you on the way to her house because you wanted to feel the wind in your hair."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but didn't budge. "I'll be fine. I'll ride next to you."
I glared.
He grinned.
I huffed, got into my car, and started the engine.
He revved his bike like a teenager and rolled up next to my driver's side window. I rolled it down.
"Do we have groceries at the house?" I called.
He cupped a hand to his ear. "What?"
"Groceries!"
He blinked. "Huh?"
I sighed. Reached for my phone. Called him.
He answered with a dramatic, "Yia sou, Mamá."
"Do. We. Have. Groceries."
"No," he admitted sheepishly.
I groaned. "We're stopping, then."
"Mamá, can't we—"
"We're stopping."
"Mam—"
"Alexi."
He went silent. Gave me a tight-lipped thumbs-up. Then, without another word, he took off ahead of me.
"Drive like a human!" I yelled from the window. "If you die, I'm going to kill you again!"
He didn't answer—just gave me a lazy wave and leaned into the curve like he'd been born on that bike.
I watched his silhouette move ahead of me. Strong. Fast. Brave.
And suddenly, my breath caught.
How did he get this big this fast?
One minute he was climbing trees in the backyard and asking if the moon followed our car, and now—he had a wife. A house. A heart that had been broken and reshaped and filled again by a girl who didn't even know how much she meant to him.
He'd found her.
Fell in love—even if he didn't admit it at first.
He got married—even if it wasn't for the reason little boys dream about.
And now... they were trying to have a child.
My child… trying to raise a child.
And then it hit me.
The IVF hadn't worked. That pain hung over them like a storm cloud they didn't want to name. But that wasn't the end.
They could still try.
Not out of clinical obligation. Not out of schedules and charts.
But from love. Real, unfiltered, unexpected love.
They could still try naturally.
I wasn't a doctor. I was a lawyer. But I was raised by Greek women who believed in olive oil and prayer, in stories passed between kitchen tables and soft-spoken wisdom wrapped in superstition.
They believed that when two souls found each other—really found each other—nothing was impossible.
I smiled to myself, gripping the steering wheel.
I'll tell them later, I thought.
Not now. Not in the middle of the cereal aisle.
But soon.
The grocery store was mercifully quiet for a weekday morning, but that didn't stop Alekos from acting like a bored teenager dragging his feet behind his mother.
"Do we really need two kinds of olives?" he muttered under his breath.
I didn't even look at him. "One for the bread. One for the soul."
"That's not a thing," he mumbled, trailing behind me like I was dragging him to war.
"You used to love this," I said, tossing herbs into the basket. "Picking fruit with me at the farmer's market. You once cried because I didn't let you carry the tomatoes."
"I was five, Mamá."
"And dramatic. Some things don't change."
He sighed—loud enough for the old man in the olive aisle to turn and glare at him.
I grinned.
We were just rounding the corner toward the fresh cheese display when a voice called out behind me.
"Nilay Stavrou. Up and shopping before eight? The apocalypse must be coming."
I turned. And there she was —Demitra, my cousin, wrapped in a cardigan that looked older than her marriage and arm-in-arm with her sister, Maria. Behind them, munching on a koulouri, was Elias, her son.
Demitra's eyes scanned me, then flicked to Alekos. "And you brought your son. What's the emergency?"
I smirked. "We're getting things for my son's wife."
Demitra nearly dropped her bag of oranges. "Your what?"
"You're married?" Maria gasped.
Elias choked on his bread.
Alekos froze mid-step, clearly regretting every life decision that led him to this moment.
"Y-yeah," he said slowly. "Kind of a… quiet ceremony."
Demitra slapped his shoulder lightly. "You got married and didn't invite your theía? I've been praying to Saint Nikolas for years to get you married off!"
"It was fast," he offered. "Not really planned."
"Still," she said, huffing. "I could've made spanakopita and cried in the second row like a proper aunt."
Maria leaned in with narrowed eyes. "So who's the girl?"
"Selin," I said simply.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Demitra clapped her hands once. "I knew it! I knew you'd end up with that girl."
"She's lovely," Maria added. "Strong. Bright. Fierce."
"We had a betting pool, you know," Demitra said, tapping her nose. "Since the first time she helped carry his books home."
Alekos blinked. "You what?"
They smiled innocently. "It was only for fun."
They kissed us on the cheeks and wandered off to the honey aisle, already whispering about how many kids they'd have.
Alekos turned to me, dazed. "Everyone knew?"
"You have no idea the amounts we bid," I said lightly.
He raised both hands. "What does that even mean?"
I shrugged, tossing thyme into the cart. "Nothing."
But I didn't mention the notebook Demitra used to keep in her purse with "Selin & Alekos Wedding Fund" written in bright red ink.
Some things are better left as mysteries.
Selin
I woke to the smell of something warm.
Something real.
Bread. Maybe thyme. And something sweet and sharp—lemon and lavender?
I blinked, unsure if I was still dreaming. But then I heard it.
Humming.
A low, familiar tune. One from long ago, when I was fifteen and sick and curled on Nilay's couch, listening to her hum while folding warm laundry and stirring soup I swore I didn't need.
I pushed the blanket off and sat up slowly. My body still ached with fatigue and disappointment, but the silence that had haunted the house yesterday was gone.
In its place was something soft.
Something human.
I padded to the doorway, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, and leaned against the frame.
There she was.
Nilay.
Hair tied back, sleeves rolled, her hands kneading dough like she'd done it a thousand times—which, knowing her, she had. Her robe fluttered with each movement, and she hummed like the morning belonged to her. Like nothing in the world had broken.
She didn't notice me at first.
Just kept working.
Kept humming.
And I stood there, unable to move, as something in me cracked.
It had been so long since someone mothered me without being asked.
So long since someone just... showed up.
She looked up and paused.
"Morning, koukla mou," she said, her voice soft, sure. "Come. Sit. I made tea."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came.
She wiped her hands, walked toward me, and pulled me into her arms.
And I let her.
No defenses. No words.
I let myself be held.
Because sometimes healing doesn't come in medicine or prayers or perfect plans.
Sometimes it comes in lemon and lavender.
In soft humming.
In the kind of hands that braid your hair and never ask for anything in return.
Lunch had been quiet but warm.
Nilay laid out everything with practiced grace: warm bread, feta with fresh herbs, olives marinated in lemon and garlic, grilled vegetables, and a slow-cooked lamb stew that tasted like home, even if I didn't remember what that felt like anymore.
Alekos barely spoke. Not because he was upset—but because he kept getting flushed. Every time our fingers brushed. Every time I laughed. Every time Nilay made one of her smug little comments and he pretended not to notice.
After lunch, he excused himself to take a shower.
"I won't be long," he said, disappearing down the hall. "Don't touch the baklava."
I didn't promise anything.
As the water ran faintly in the background, Nilay and I moved around the kitchen, washing dishes in a quiet rhythm. I dried while she rinsed, passing the plates to me like we'd done this a thousand times before.
"I used to do this with my sisters back in Thessaloniki," she said suddenly, a dreamy sort of nostalgia in her voice. "There was no dishwasher. No microwave. We'd scrub and hum and talk about everything—about the neighbors, about whose goats escaped, and about who got proposed to that week."
I smiled. "It sounds peaceful."
"It was." She paused, passed me a wooden spoon. "Simple. Messy. But never empty."
The air turned soft. Almost too soft.
She rinsed the last bowl and dried her hands slowly, like she was thinking through something before speaking.
Then she turned to me—and held my hand.
I didn't pull away.
"Selin mou," she said gently, "back in Greece, the women I grew up with… they would do anything to conceive. Anything. Drink herbs, fast, walk barefoot into the sea at sunrise. Not because they were desperate, but because they believed in the life their bodies were meant to carry."
My stomach twisted.
She didn't push. Just held my hand like a mother would—not forcing, not pleading. Inviting.
"I know the IVF didn't work," she said. "And I know your heart is tired. But I also know that you want a child."
"I do," I whispered. "More than anything."
She gave a soft nod. "Then maybe… it's time to try. The natural way."
I froze.
The words hit me like a slow wave. Gentle. But pulling everything I was holding tightly to the surface.
"I can't," I said quickly. "I—he wouldn't want that. I don't want to burden him. We're already…"
She watched me, saying nothing.
"I don't want to ruin what we have," I continued. "I know we're not in love. Not like that. And if I ask—if I do this—it'll change things. Forever. What if he looks at me differently? What if it breaks everything?"
My voice cracked. "What if I lose him completely?"
Nilay placed her other hand over mine. "You're already losing time, koukla mou."
That silence felt heavier than anything.
"I'm not saying to force it. I'm not saying to beg," she said. "But this may be your last chance. And if there's even a little bit of love between you two, Selin—even a little—you owe it to yourself to try."
I stared down at the dish towel clenched in my hand.
I wanted a child so badly it hurt. Ached. I wanted the weight of a baby in my arms. I wanted the middle-of-the-night cries. I wanted someone to call me Mamá the way I had never been able to say it again since losing mine.
But I also didn't want to lose Alekos.
He was my best friend. My constant. My safe place.
And the thought of pushing him too far terrified me more than the idea of never being a mother.
I whispered, "What if it ruins us?"
Nilay brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, her touch tender. "Then let me help you pick up the pieces. But don't let fear be the thing that decides for you."
And she pulled me into her arms again.
No answers. No promises.
Just comfort.
And sometimes… that was enough.
Alekos
I stepped out of the shower feeling clean—scrubbed down to bone and thought. I always showered after something heavy. It was my reset. And today… I needed to reset.
I changed into a plain black tee and sweatpants, ran a hand through my damp hair, and padded barefoot down the hall.
The house was still.
But not silent.
Not cold.
There was something in the air—thicker than the scent of fresh thyme and lemons. Something I couldn't name, but could feel settling in the corners of the kitchen, like a conversation had happened and left its echo behind.
Mamá was folding a dish towel. Selin stood near the table, her back half-turned to me, hands wrapped loosely around a steaming mug of tea.
They both looked up at the same time.
Selin smiled—but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Mamá gave me a look that told me nothing and everything at once.
"Clean at last?" my mother teased, brushing past me to head down the hall. "You could've exfoliated a whole chapter of your life in there."
"Don't tempt me," I muttered.
Selin laughed, but even that sounded softer than usual. Not unhappy. Just… thoughtful.
"You okay?" I asked, stepping a little closer.
She nodded too fast. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."
But I knew her better than that.
I knew her enough to recognize when something had been said—and now couldn't be unsaid.
I didn't push.
I just sat down beside her, and we shared the silence like we always did—comfortable, until it wasn't.
Selin
It took me hours.
Hours of telling myself it wasn't the right time. That maybe I should wait until tomorrow. That maybe I was imagining the urgency—that maybe it wasn't even fair to bring it up.
But the words wouldn't stop circling my chest.
Wouldn't stop pulling at me.
"It's late," I whispered. "But… can we go outside for a bit?"
Alekos looked at me from the couch. The TV flickered across his face, all soft blues and golds. He didn't hesitate—just clicked the remote, shut off the screen, and stood.
We didn't talk as we stepped out into the garden.
The cold night brushed against my cheeks like a question. Familiar. Waiting. The scent of soil and thyme lingered in the air. Dew clung to the swing chains like stars that had dropped too low.
We sat on the swings we had built when I first moved in.
He'd insisted on them.
"They'll remind us of when we used to talk for hours," he said.
He was right.
Tonight, they felt like memories made of metal and rope.
I held onto the chain, barely rocking. He glanced over at me, waiting.
"If I asked you," I said quietly, "to do something—anything—for me to conceive… would you do it?"
He blinked. "Yes."
The answer was immediate. Unshaken.
I swallowed. My heart stammered. "Your mother… she suggested something."
His posture changed—just slightly. Not defensive, but alert.
"Mamá?" he said slowly.
I nodded, trying not to sound like I was asking for too much. "She said… maybe we should try naturally."
The words left me in a breath, not a sentence.
He didn't say anything.
I saw his jaw slacken, eyes blinking once, twice. The way his fingers tightened slightly around the chain.
Oh God.
"I—I shouldn't have said that," I blurted, standing too fast. "Forget it. Just ignore it. Let's go inside—"
"Selin—wait—"
He reached for my arm, trying to stop me gently. I turned too quickly, lost my footing—
—and fell straight into his lap.
It wasn't graceful. My knee hit his thigh. I half-fell, half-sat, hands braced awkwardly against his chest.
We both froze.
I was about to move, heat crawling up my neck, when I heard a very distinct creak behind us.
I turned my head just enough to spot a curtain in the window shift.
Nilay.
Watching.
Giggling.
Of course.
"I hate her," he muttered, my face buried in his shoulder.
"She's thrilled," Alekos mumbled against my hair. "You've made her year."
"I'm going to die."
"No, you're not."
I moved to get up, but his arms stayed firm around my waist. Not forceful. Just… grounded.
He looked up at me, voice lower now. Real. "I meant what I said, Selin. I would do anything for you to conceive. Anything."
I swallowed. My hand rested on his shoulder.
"But would it affect us?" I whispered. "Our friendship?"
He didn't hesitate. "Of course not."
My eyes burned.
And then he hugged me—tight, warm, steady. I stayed there, curled in his lap on that old swing set we built when love wasn't a question yet. When it was just friendship.
But tonight... It felt like something else.
Not quite spoken.
But alive.
Maybe everything changes.
Maybe it already had
Alekos
She pulled away gently.
Her arms loosened around my neck, her hands brushing down the sleeves of my shirt like a silent apology for being so close.
"Goodnight," she whispered, still a little breathless.
I nodded, unable to say much more than, "Goodnight."
And just like that, she was gone—blanket wrapped around her again, bare feet tapping up the steps, soft curls bouncing behind her.
I stayed.
Sat on the swing long after the door closed, the stars crowding the sky above me like they'd been waiting for a show.
From behind me, through the barely cracked window, came a very familiar snort.
I turned my head, already scowling.
"Mamá," I called, "stop laughing."
Her laugh only got louder.
I sighed and stared up at the sky again, lips twitching against my will.
She really had done it.
That tiny flushed face of hers… the stammer in her voice… asking me that.
I replayed it, again and again, against the backdrop of chirping crickets and wind brushing past the garden walls.
I didn't want to admit it, but—
God, I'd thought about it.
Wished it had happened already.
Wished the reasons were different.
Wished the fear wasn't wrapped around it like thorns.
But I wanted her.
Not just the child.
Her.
I exhaled, stood up, and ran a hand through my hair.
Then I turned toward the house.
The door clicked softly behind me, and I made my way to my room—past the hallway where she had disappeared, past the quiet kitchen, past the swing of lemon still lingering in the air.
I climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and whispered to no one:
"She has no idea."
And for now… maybe that was okay.
Selin
I didn't sleep much.
I kept replaying it in my head—the garden, the swing, his arms, the way he said "anything" like he meant it. I kept wondering if he regretted it. If he'd gone to bed thinking I crossed a line. If I'd ruined something soft and sacred between us.
Maybe I was selfish for asking.
Maybe I was just desperate—for something the universe had already told me "no" to.
I sat up slowly, wrapped in a blanket I barely remembered pulling over myself, and padded toward the kitchen.
Nilay was already there, of course. Sleeves rolled, hair tied back, humming something familiar under her breath. The air smelled like warm bread and rosemary and cinnamon. She was whisking eggs like the world hadn't shifted just hours ago.
"Good morning, koukla mou," she said without looking up.
"Morning."
She looked at me this time—actually looked. And in her eyes was that same knowing softness she'd always carried. The kind that made me feel twelve again, sick with a fever and hiding tears in her sofa cushions.
"You look like you didn't sleep," she said in a teasing tone.
I gave her a look and shoved my hair behind my ear. "Shut up," I muttered playfully, which only made her smirk.
Alekos
I walked into the kitchen, towel-drying my hair, half-expecting awkward silence.
Instead, I got… breakfast.
Warm plates. Honey on bread. Cheese and olives. My mother was humming like it was just another Thursday morning and she wasn't mentally redecorating the garden for our fake honeymoon.
Selin looked up at me—just for a second—then back down to her tea.
I swallowed and set the towel aside. "Morning."
"Morning," she murmured, still not meeting my eyes.
Nilay turned toward me with that look. The smug one. The one that made my spine tense like I'd just walked into a trap.
"Oh, my poor boy," she said with exaggerated pity. "Did you sleep at all?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Did you?"
"Barely," she replied with too much cheer. "Kept waking up thinking about how romantic swing sets are."
"Mamá."
Selin choked quietly on her tea.
Nilay shrugged like she'd said nothing at all. "I think we should install fairy lights out there. Make it official."
"Mamá," I groaned again, dragging my hand down my face.
"What?" she said innocently. "You two are practically a Nicholas Sparks novel."
I shot her a glare. She winked.
Selin stood abruptly, voice rushed. "I'm just—gonna get the jam."
"I already put it on the table," Nilay said without even turning around.
"Oh," Selin said softly. "Right."
She sat back down without another word.
And for a while, the only sound in the room was the shifting of plates… and my mother's humming—bright, intrusive, and way too accurate.
Selin
I tried not to fidget.
Tried not to look at him. Tried not to think about the night before, the warmth of his arms, the weight of his promise.
But it was like my body remembered everything my mind was begging it to forget.
The way I fell into him.
The way he held me like he wanted to.
My tea was barely warm anymore, but I sipped it just to keep my hands busy. My cheeks were still hot, even in the cool kitchen.
And then he sat down.
Across from me. Calm. Casual. Like he hadn't said he would do anything. Like he hadn't looked at me like that swing was the only thing keeping him from kissing me.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asked, voice low, careful.
I nodded, lying. "You?"
He shrugged. "Enough."
He wouldn't look at me either now.
Typical.
Nilay placed a plate of warm bread between us, humming an old song under her breath. It was the same one Alekos used to hum when he was making pasta at 1 a.m. in college. The one I told him made me feel like home.
I glanced up—so did he.
Our eyes met.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
Then he smiled.
Soft. Timid. Real.
And something in my chest loosened.
He wasn't avoiding me.
He wasn't pretending.
He was scared too.
And maybe… maybe that meant we could be scared together.
Nilay clapped her hands suddenly. "Okay! Eat! You both look like ghosts. Beautiful ghosts, but still."
Alekos laughed, head ducked. I smiled behind my mug.
God help me, I loved this woman.
The kitchen had quieted.
Alekos had taken his mug outside, claiming he needed air, and Nilay was wiping down the counter with the kind of focus that meant her mind was elsewhere. I stood up to help, but before I could even reach for a cloth, she said, "Come with me."
Her voice was soft. No humming now. Just a calm certainty.
I followed her through the hallway, past the living room and down the small back corridor that led to the guest room she used when she stayed over. She opened the door, motioned me inside, and knelt beside the dresser.
I waited, confused, until she pulled out a wooden box.
Worn. Simple. The kind that carried the smell of cedar and history.
She sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside her. "Sit."
I obeyed.
She opened the box slowly, like it still had weight. Not the physical kind—but the kind made of memories that tug at your chest when you least expect them.
Inside were letters. Dozens. Folded carefully, yellowed at the edges, tied together with fraying ribbons.
"I wrote to no one in particular," she said. "Sometimes to God. Sometimes to my unborn child. Sometimes to the girl I used to be before I was someone's wife or someone's mother."
I blinked. "You… wrote these before Alekos?"
She nodded. "When I was trying to conceive."
I stilled.
Nilay smiled faintly, not with joy—but with recognition.
"I thought it would be easy. You get married. You build a life. A child comes. But it wasn't like that for me. It took years. And in those years, I broke in ways no one ever warned me about."
She pulled out one letter, handing it to me gently.
I didn't read it aloud. I just held it. Felt the ache in the paper. The hope that bled through the ink.
"There were days I hated my body," she said quietly. "Days I hated God. Days I hated my husband. And worst of all… days I hated myself for still wanting something that felt so far away."
A lump rose in my throat. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I see that same look in your eyes," she said. "That ache that you try to smile through. That grief that clings to your bones no matter how many times you convince yourself it's gone."
Tears welled up before I could stop them.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
She nodded. "I know."
"I want to be a mother so badly, it hurts."
"I know."
"And I don't know what this will do to me. To him. To us."
Nilay reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear like she used to do when I was younger. "Then don't carry it alone."
I looked down at the letter in my lap.
"The world will try to tell you that motherhood is only about the child. But it's not," she whispered. "It's about who you become in the process. And you, Selin... you're already on your way."
I leaned into her shoulder.
And she let me.
Because sometimes what you need isn't advice or solutions.
Sometimes what you need is a story. A letter. A mother. Even if she isn't yours by blood.
But Nilay wasn't finished.
"There's something else," she murmured, reaching into the bottom of the box.
She pulled out a photo—faded, curled at the corners—and handed it to me with the kind of reverence reserved for things that changed your life.
"That's the first time I really saw him," she whispered.
It was Alekos.
Maybe five years old. Dressed in a tiny black suit, white shirt untucked, face covered in streaks of mud. His wavy black hair was stuck to his forehead, his hands a mess. And still—he was grinning. Big, gap-toothed, wild-eyed joy. His green eyes were brighter than anything I'd ever seen.
"We were supposed to go to church," she explained, laughter touching the edges of her voice. "But he ran off with the older boys, found a puddle, and by the time I caught him, he said he couldn't be cleaned because he was now 'holy dirt.'"
Despite the ache in my chest, I laughed. I couldn't help it.
"He was born early," she added, quieter now. "We thought we'd lose him. Thirty-two weeks. Tiny. Weak. And after I gave birth, I didn't feel anything for days. Just numb. It was postpartum depression, but no one called it that. They just called me ungrateful."
My smile faded.
"But then one night," she said, eyes never leaving the photo, "he smiled at me from his hospital crib. Still hooked to tubes. And he had those big green eyes. I remember thinking, there you are. And I knew I'd survive it. For him."
I blinked back tears, unable to take my eyes off the boy in the photo.
Nilay touched my hand again. "He was my miracle, Selin. Maybe not the one I expected, but the one who taught me how to keep going."
I nodded slowly.
I approached him in the garden.
He was sitting on the swing, his hands loose in his lap, his eyes fixed on the fading horizon like he was waiting for the sky to give him an answer.
I hesitated at the door.
Then I stepped out barefoot, the ground still warm beneath me. "Alekos?"
He looked up, blinking like he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. "Yeah?"
"Can we talk?"
He nodded, and I took the swing beside him. The chains creaked gently between us. It was quiet enough to hear the rustle of lavender near the edge of the fence, the wind brushing past the rosemary bush Nilay planted years ago.
"I saw a photo," I said after a beat. "You were in a suit. Covered in mud."
He groaned softly, rubbing his face. "Not that one. She still has that?"
"She showed it to me," I said with a smile that trembled at the edges. "She also told me how hard it was. Bringing you into this world."
His smile faded.
"She told me about the birth. The fear. Her depression after. How she felt like a stranger to herself until she saw you smile."
He was quiet. But he listened.
"I guess I needed to hear that," I whispered. "That sometimes… love isn't instant. That even miracles start with pain."
I turned to him, heart thudding. "Do you remember what you said yesterday?"
He nodded, slowly. "Yeah."
"You said you'd do anything. For me to conceive."
His jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded again. "I meant it."
"But… do you still mean it?"
This time, he turned to look at me. Really look at me.
And instead of rushing his answer, he took a breath. Then another. His voice was low when he finally spoke.
"I don't have all the answers, Selin," he said. "I don't know what this will do to us. I don't know where it leads. But I know this…"
He paused, eyes fixed on mine.
"I will always be here. No matter what."
Tears stung my eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," he added, softer now. "Even if it gets hard. Even if it hurts. Even if nothing happens the way we want it to—I'm still yours. As your friend. As whatever you need me to be."
I swallowed the ache in my throat.
"I just don't want to lose what we already have," I said.
"Then you won't," he whispered. "Because I'm not walking away. Not now. Not ever."
I reached for his hand. It was warm. Familiar.
And at that moment, maybe it wasn't a love confession.
But it was something better.
A vow.
Alekos
"I just think…" she started, then trailed off, rubbing her temples. "If we're going to do this, we need rules."
I gave her a crooked smile. "Rules?"
She nodded, all serious. "Yes. Ground rules. Boundaries. Something."
I leaned back on the swing, letting my head rest against the chain, watching the sky bleed orange above us. "Okay, let's hear it then."
She took a breath. "No cuddling after."
I raised a brow. "You cuddle in your sleep."
"Then wake me up."
"That sounds cruel."
"No feelings," she added quickly.
I blinked. Too late.
"Alekos—"
"I got it," I said, holding up both hands. "No new feelings. No weirdness. No... staring."
She narrowed her eyes on me. "You always stare."
I shrugged. "You always catch me."
She rolled her eyes—but that soft laugh slipped out anyway, the one she always tried to hide when she was flustered. It knocked the wind out of me more than it should have.
We went back and forth like that—joking, circling, pretending this was something we could manage with rules. Every rule became a loophole. Every loophole made her laugh. And every laugh made it harder for me to pretend this wasn't already personal.
Eventually, she slumped forward, burying her face in her hands.
"This is impossible."
I looked over at her, at the way the sunlight touched her hair, painted gold into the shadows on her cheek. "Yeah. It kind of is."
"I wish someone wise could just tell us what to do," she mumbled.
I didn't say anything.
She glanced sideways at me, and I was already looking at her.
Then—at the exact same time—we both turned our heads toward the edge of the garden.
There she was.
My mother.
Watering the basil. Humming some old Greek folk tune. Completely oblivious to the emotional chaos unraveling twenty feet away. Or maybe not oblivious. Maybe just patient. Like she always is.
I looked at Selin. She looked at me.
And then, at the same time:
"Nilay."
"Ma."
We said it in unison.
Because when all else fails…
You go to the woman who raised you both.
Who's loved you both.
Who knows.