Selin
The tea had long gone cold.
Neither of us drank much.
We just sat at the island, mugs half-full, silence draped between us like a warm blanket and a sharp edge all at once.
Eventually, we moved.
Not because the moment ended, but because we were too afraid to stay in it longer.
He walked me to my room.
Like always.
Like nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
I paused at the door.
Fingers on the knob. Heart in my throat.
He stood beside me, shoulder barely brushing mine, gaze on the floor like he couldn't trust himself to meet my eyes.
I didn't want to go in.
Not really.
Not yet.
But sleep wasn't coming for either of us, and we both knew it.
Still—rituals mattered.
So I turned toward him. Gently.
And rested my head on his shoulder.
Just for a second.
Maybe two.
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just… breathed.
Slow and deep.
Like he didn't want to spook whatever spell we were under.
I felt his hand twitch at his side, like he almost reached for mine—but didn't.
"Goodnight," I whispered.
He swallowed.
"Goodnight, Sel."
I pulled back slowly, eyes catching his in the hallway light.
He looked like he wanted to say something.
But instead…
He just smiled.
The soft kind.
The kind that said: I'll still be here tomorrow.
I went inside.
Closed the door.
And leaned against it, heart pounding louder than it had any right to.
No, I didn't sleep.
Not right away.
Because my shoulder still felt warm.
And it wasn't from the tea.
Alekos
I walked into my room like it might offer answers.
It didn't.
I shut the door, locked it, and just… stood there.
Pacing.
Left to right. Right to left.
Then I stopped.
Stared at the ceiling like it had a hotline to God.
It didn't.
But all I could see up there was her.
Not the ceiling.
Her.
Selin.
Her head against my shoulder. The way she leaned in like it meant something. The heat of her cheek through the fabric of my shirt. Her sigh, her quiet goodnight, the way she lingered just long enough to wreck my sanity.
It played on a loop.
That moment.
That gentle, casual, devastating moment.
I sat down.
Got up.
Paced again.
I wasn't like this. I didn't do this.
Not with her.
She was supposed to be my best friend.
The one I threw popcorn at during sad movies. The one who punched my arm when I said something dumb. The one who laughed at my bad impressions and rolled her eyes at my Greek melodrama.
Now I wanted to kiss her every time she breathed.
And worse?
Now I knew what she looked like when she slept in my arms.
What her skin felt like.
What her voice sounded like when she whispered my name.
I dragged a hand down my face and flopped onto the bed like a man possessed.
This was bad.
This was very, very bad.
And I was very, very gone.
Selin
I was halfway through a slice of toast when my phone rang.
Nilay.
I answered without thinking, the speaker was already on.
"Good morning, sweetie," she said, voice far too cheery for 8:43 a.m. "Just wanted to remind you both—it's an odd day."
My heart stopped.
Alekos, across the table, dropped his spoon into his cereal.
"We… we know, Nilay," I stammered. "Thank you."
"No no, don't just 'thank you' me. You must do it today. That's the rule. The window is short. The baby needs this. I need this."
"Ma—" Alekos groaned, head in hands.
"And be gentle with her this time!" Nilay barked through the phone. "She's not a chew toy!"
I choked on my tea.
"She bruises like an apple and you mount her like a centaur, Alekos! You better behave this time or so help me—"
Alekos looked five seconds away from combusting. "Why are you like this?"
"You're lucky I'm not there or I'd be adjusting the positions myself! DO. IT. TODAY."
Then she hung up.
No goodbye.
Just war.
Silence.
I stared at the toast in my hand like it might solve global peace.
Alekos still hadn't moved.
Finally, he looked at me.
"…I kind of want to cry."
I swallowed. "I kind of want to run away to the Alps and raise sheep."
He nodded slowly. "Let's do both."
The odd-day panic had passed.
Kind of.
Mostly because we'd decided to do the most responsible, adult thing possible when your mother-in-law calls and demands baby-making like she's running a fertility boot camp:
We cleaned.
Deep cleaned.
It started small—me wiping the counters, Alekos vacuuming aimlessly in circles like he was exorcising something.
And then I put on music.
My playlist, obviously.
And yes, it was full of songs he claimed to hate.
Pop. R&B. A little Turkish indie he pretended not to know the words to.
But when Tarkan came on?
His hips did not lie.
"Oh, you're singing now?" I teased as he mouthed the chorus to Şımarık with a mop in hand like it was a microphone.
"I'm being held hostage," he replied, spinning dramatically.
"Uh-huh. That's why you know the dance."
He gave me the finger and a body roll.
I cackled.
Then grabbed the feather duster and struck a pose.
Soon we were performing for an imaginary audience—sliding across the hallway tiles in socks, flicking suds at each other, and lip-syncing like we were gunning for a Grammy and a divorce simultaneously.
By the time we moved out to the garden, I was sweaty, grass-stained, and laughing so hard my sides hurt.
He was digging up weeds like he was punishing the soil.
"You're gonna kill the basil," I warned.
"It looked at me funny."
"I'm naming it Basilikos."
He paused.
Then threw dirt at me.
I shrieked. Grabbed a handful of soil and flung it back.
For a while, we were just us again.
No contract. No countdown. No odd-day intimacy quota.
Just Selin and Alekos.
Best friends.
Throwing dirt and dodging responsibility.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt, and I immediately looked away.
Because yes, we were playing.
But also… he looked too good doing yard work.
Muscles and sunlight and that stupid grin he made when he thought he was winning.
God, I hated him.
God, I liked him.
We eventually collapsed onto the grass, both breathless.
"I forgot how fun this was," I said between pants.
He turned to me, squinting through the sun. "Same."
I watched his chest rise and fall. His hands dirty. His hair a mess.
And for one stupid moment, I wanted to reach for his hand.
I didn't.
But I smiled.
And he smiled back.
Like maybe…
Just maybe…
We weren't running anymore.
Or maybe I was just ovulating.
Alekos
We were washing up after Operation: Dirt Disaster when I noticed the scrape on her palm.
Small. Right below the thumb.
She hadn't said anything.
But I saw her wince while drying a glass.
"Let me see," I said, reaching gently for her hand.
"It's fine."
"It's not," I said, already pulling her toward the drawer with the first-aid kit. "You'll get basil-related tetanus."
"That's not a thing—"
"Selin. Hand."
She rolled her eyes but held it out.
I dabbed it with antiseptic, careful. Focused. Too focused.
Because her skin was soft.
Warm.
And I was dangerously aware of how small her hand looked in mine.
She watched me quietly. And for once, didn't make a joke.
Just let me wrap her palm in a strip of gauze.
Like I wasn't the same man who once duct-taped her ankle after a playground fall and called it "emergency orthopedic care."
"You're good at this," she said softly.
I didn't look up. "I've had practice."
"From when Alton used to—"
"Yeah."
Silence.
Heavy.
She touched my wrist, thumb brushing just once.
"Thanks," she whispered.
And my heart—stupid, lovesick traitor—tried to climb out of my chest.
Selin
We were back in the kitchen.
Washing the last few dishes. Still not speaking about the odd day. Or last night. Or the kiss on the cheek. Or the hoodie.
But the quiet was warmer now.
Comfortable.
Almost.
He handed me a plate. I dried it. Our hands brushed. Again.
Always again.
"Alekos?"
He hummed.
I hesitated.
Stared down at the plate in my hands, watching the water drip off the edges.
Then I asked it.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
"Do you ever wish we were doing this for love?"
He froze.
Like the words knocked the air out of him.
He didn't speak right away.
I panicked. "Forget I said that. It was stupid. I just—"
"Yes."
The plate slipped from my hands into the towel.
I turned to him.
His eyes were soft. Unafraid.
"Yes," he repeated. "I do."
Something inside me shattered and bloomed all at once.
But before either of us could say more, the oven timer beeped.
Loud. Sharp. Normal.
And just like that… the moment was gone.
But the answer lingered.
Heavy. Quiet.
Hopeful.
The kitchen smelled like garlic, basil, and unresolved emotional tension.
We were making pasta.
It wasn't anything fancy—just a quick recipe I'd memorized years ago, back when Alekos lived off cereal and frozen samosas. He grated cheese while I stirred the sauce, humming to an old Turkish song that somehow didn't sound too bad through the crackly Bluetooth speaker.
He joined in at the chorus. Off-key. Loud.
I nearly dropped the ladle laughing.
For a moment, it felt normal.
Like we weren't two best friends in a contract marriage, hurtling toward some inevitable intimacy appointment because his mother had an Excel sheet.
We set the table.
Sat down.
Ate.
And didn't talk about what he said earlier.
We didn't have to.
The air between us still shimmered with it.
I twirled my pasta. Tried not to overthink. Failed spectacularly.
Then—casually, like we were just discussing weather—I said:
"You should get ready."
His fork paused. Just for a beat.
Then he hummed. "Alright."
No questions. No teasing.
Just that.
I stood up, collected my dish, and went straight to my room before I lost the nerve.