#ft: aslan soykan

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

Aslan's Place with Aslan @aslansoykan

"Just came to check in." Words were spoken with careful neutrality, as though she was doing nothing more than her due diligence as their medic. Maybe it was more for her than it was for him, after all, she knew that he was one of the few that could perhaps be trusted to manage their own condition. He'd ask for her help if it was needed. But she'd seen him get blow upon blow inflicted upon him by MC members and it didn't really matter to her how many he'd gotten in himself, the outcome of the fight doing little to dampen her concern. There'd been a desire to tend to him then and there but when he'd risen to his feet, gun in hand, she'd realised he must have been fine. So she'd waited to dull her worry and satisfy that nagging part of her that couldn't help but fixate on how he was, hoping that her arrival wouldn't seem like too much of an intrusion. "I brought some manti." A by-product of all the cooking she'd been doing in between shifts, trying to funnel her anxious energy somewhere. Before he could think she was trying to pick up the role of caretaker for him, something she'd never truly done before, sheepish smile flickered over her lips followed by wry words. "I'm trying to get rid of it."

[gaelxdevries]

Iron Sight Range with Aslan Soykan @aslansoykan

Unable to give himself any kind of permission to rest, Gael had long since established a kind of routine to ensure he felt that every minute of his time was filled with things that would benefit his organisation. Part of that was checking in on each of their businesses whenever possible, keen to be certain that there was nothing they could be doing better. He'd dropped by to the shooting range with the intention of only staying a few minutes, just long enough to ascertain there was nothing to concern himself over, but his plans quickly changed when he spotted who was making use of the facilities. As he leaned against a wall to wait for Aslan he pulled out his cigarettes, managing to get his lit just as he saw the other man approaching. Packet was extended out to the Kurtlar second. "Want one?" A peace offering but one he knows isn't needed, not since their brief text exchange confirmed that all was still well. It had been nothing more than emojis but they'd never needed anything else.

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

"Just be thankful I couldn't fit my soapbox in my purse." Silence might have usually triggered some kind of anxiety in her, worried that she'd said or done the wrong thing. But she'd known Aslan long enough that it came with the territory, allowing peace to sit between them until he spoke again.

The smile that touched her lips was tinged with bittersweet memories, wry tone mirroring it as she spoke. "Close but not quite close enough." Istanbul had been her home for half of her life and even though she'd built a new family for herself in LA person by person, there'd be a part of her that'd always long for it. If only because her brother was so tied to the memory of it.

"I miss it, sometimes." A slight lie, but one that was to save him having to comfort her if she shared how it sometimes felt more like an ache. "But maybe it's just all this -" Hand gestured to the extravagance, her undeniably out of place. "- mistaking seasickness for homesickness."

Zeina hadn't changed much over the years, still had that quiet calm about her, the kind people often mistook for shyness when it was really just restraint. Which was a trait he'd always respected. Admired, even.

Aslan let out a low breath of smoke, his gaze slipping sideways to catch her expression, and that wave of her hand indicating the cigarette. "Appreciate the lack of sermon." Spoken in an attempt at a joke back.

A beat passed. Not awkward, just measured as his gaze drew out to the sea, choosing to ignore the sound of laughter and music echoing distantly from the deck below. "The view helps." He finally let out with a faint nod, accompanied with a raise of his lip from one corner. "Reminds me of Istanbul." Not as memorable, but it would do.

[dilanseyfi]

who: @aslansoykan where: a hole in the wall

She saw him before he saw her—or at least, she thought she did. It had been weeks since the yacht party, since the blood and the noise and the look on his face that hadn’t quite left her. And despite telling herself over and over that she didn’t need to do anything about it—that she wasn’t his keeper, wasn’t his friend (not really)—she still found herself pausing the moment she spotted him.

A low-end Turkish café off Washington, tucked between a closed convenience store and a tire shop. It wasn’t somewhere she’d ever seen him before. Wasn’t somewhere she’d expect anyone with taste to be, actually. But there he was. Head bent like the air around him had gotten heavier since the last time she saw him.

She hovered just inside the doorway, the little bell above the entrance betraying her before she could decide whether to approach or disappear again. Classic. “Wow,” she said, dryly, stepping fully into the narrow room. “You do still exist.” No smile. No joke behind the words this time. Just Dilan, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning him like she was still piecing together the version of him that had stepped into that fight like it was nothing. Like it was familiar.

“You've been hiding,” she added, quieter now as she made her way to his table. “Or is this just your new post-stabbing hangout?” She was trying to keep it light, but it faltered at the edges. Truth was, it wasn’t about curiosity or closure or whatever else she could’ve dressed it up as. It was about making sure he was alright. Still standing. Still breathing. Still himself underneath whatever the hell that night had stirred up. Which felt odd, considering that night also reminded her she didn't know him much at all.

She looked down at him, voice low. “You okay?” It wasn’t casual. Not this time.

[leon-orozco]

where: yacht party baby who: the hollow ( @bloodngloryhq ), ft @tomhatch @aslansoykan

The twin buzz of incoming texts vibrated through the bar—Tommy’s first, then León’s half a second later. The glow from both screens lit their faces in the dim, opulent yacht light.

León’s eyes narrowed as he read:

My my, I shouldn’t be surprised to know you harbor such a dirty secret. What’s a little more blood on those hands? Do what I say and your secret will stay hidden. Go inside the main room with everyone else for the speech. After the lights go out, another will accuse two in the crowd of being behind this. Start a fight with Aslan Soykan. Have Thomas Hatch join you. Don’t forget I want to see some blood and chaos. You should be used to the violence by now.

“Who the fuck is Aslan Soykan?”

León didn’t look up right away. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, took a drag, then exhaled slowly. “Top dog with Kurtlar. Moves like a goddamn ghost and hits like a freight train.” He finally met Tommy’s eyes. “If this is real… we’re gonna have to go through hell for whoever’s playing puppeteer.”

They moved through the crowd into the yacht’s lavish main hall—chandeliers swaying slightly with the gentle rock of the sea, voices buzzing louder with anticipation. The crowd clustered together, waiting for the speech that had been teased for days.

And then—right on cue—the lights dimmed.

A spotlight flicked on. A woman stepped forward in the darkness, voice projected, accusations flying towards their target and another, her voice slicing through the worried mutters. A collective gasp swept the room. León didn’t hesitate. He glanced at Tommy, gave him a quick nod, and the two of them started moving—fast and quiet—toward Aslan through the crowd.

They flanked him from behind, and then in perfect sync—Leon struck first, a sharp right hook to the side of Aslan’s head. Tommy followed, driving a fist into the man’s ribs. Aslan staggered—just for a beat—then turned with the reflexes of a killer, eyes blazing.

The ballroom exploded into chaos.

Aslan’s elbow cracked back, catching Tommy in the jaw. He spun to meet León’s next punch with a forearm block, countering with a brutal knee to León’s gut. The fight became a blur of motion: fists flying, heels skidding on polished marble, bodies colliding into stunned guests as they scrambled to get out of the way. Aslan wasn’t just skilled—he was surgical. But León was feral. Every blow Aslan landed, León returned with raw, vicious power. Tommy held his own, but he was still a new member, still learning.

And then—it happened. Aslan grabbed Tommy by the collar and slammed his forehead into the younger man’s skull. The crack was sickening. Tommy crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back as he hit the floor, unmoving. León didn’t even flinch. He let out a breath like a snarl and lunged.

What followed wasn’t trained—it was pure survival. León absorbed a hit to the ribs, threw an elbow that grazed Aslan’s temple, then landed a blind, lucky shot right to the side of Aslan’s head. The man dropped to the floor. León moved fast, trying to pin him down, to finish what they started—but Aslan’s hand shot out like a striking viper. A glint of silver—Steel bit into León’s abdomen.

The pain was white-hot. León gasped, mouth open in a silent yell as the blade twisted once before Aslan shoved him off. Blood soaked his shirt almost immediately. But he was like a dog who hadn't been told stop yet, and lunged for him once again, only for him arm to be caught, a familiar flash of black hair. His opponent stood, and he too was being pulled away by someone.

Just as fast as it had started, it was over. Somewhere behind them, security was shouting. Someone was calling for help. The room had devolved into panic and violence. And León was sure whoever sent the message was watching, but all he could think about whoever had just pulled his strings. And how badly they’d underestimated what he’d do to cut the cord.

[dilanseyfi]

who: @aslansoykan where: manor of hope gala

Dilan adjusted the strap of her dress as she moved through the gilded expanse of the ballroom, a champagne flute balanced effortlessly between her fingers. She wasn’t supposed to be drinking—she was here to work—but the sip she took was more about giving herself something to do rather than indulging.

The Manor of Hope Gala was exactly the kind of event that had little to do with hope and everything to do with power. LAPD higher-ups schmoozed with billionaires and political players under the guise of charity, their laughter ringing hollow beneath the chandeliers. Even as an outsider, it was easy to see who actually had a stake in the game and who was just here to be seen.

She caught sight of the Royal Bidding House’s curator, deep in conversation with some city official, and resisted the urge to check her watch. She was supposed to be assisting—whispering names, reminding her of past dealings, making sure nothing embarrassing slipped through the cracks—but so far, she’d just been left to loiter.

That was when she saw him.

Not up close at first—just a glimpse through the shifting sea of tailored suits and silk gowns. A profile she should have been able to dismiss as just another face in the crowd, yet for some reason, it pulled at her like a thread she couldn’t quite unravel. Dilan wasn’t the type to dwell on déjà vu. The world was full of familiar strangers, of features that echoed in ways the mind liked to play tricks with. But this man—it was the second time she’d seen him, and just like before, something in her gut twisted with recognition she couldn’t place.

She took another sip of champagne, her gaze lingering longer than she meant for it to. This was going to bother her. And the best way to scratch an itch like that was to confront it head-on. She drifted closer, letting the hum of conversation blur around her until she was standing just within speaking distance of where he lingered on the outskirts.

“That's one of my favorite pieces of Fattori's." she commented, gesturing to the painting that seemingly held his attention. She was just hoping if she could hear him talk or catch his mannerisms, it'd all come back to her. It would most likely be something mundane, a customer or seller at the bid house, someone she maybe saw at a local business often enough. But as someone who had a head for faces, it'd bother her until she could place him. “It’s not the kind of pastoral scene most people expect from Italian art—no lush vineyards or rolling hills. Just grit, dust, and movement. Feels more like the American west than Italy.”

[dilanseyfi]

[dilanseyfi]

She didn’t look away when he said it. Just watched him, gaze steady, like she was waiting to see if he’d flinch or soften or offer her something hollow in return. He didn’t. And something in her spine relaxed a little, a breath deeper than the one before slipping out before she could stop it. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Alsancak. Spring of ‘98.”

The words felt strange outside her head—too specific, too rooted in a memory that never got spoken aloud. She wasn’t sure why she gave them to him. Maybe because he hadn’t offered pity. Maybe because he hadn’t rushed to fill the silence like everyone else did when confronted with things that couldn’t be fixed.

She lifted the glass again but didn’t drink, just let the steam slip toward her face as if that alone could distract from the tightness still lingering in her chest. “I used to think he’d just show up one day. Like it was all a misunderstanding, some Kafka-esque bullshit where he’d been walking in circles this whole time and couldn’t find his way back.” Her lips twisted—something close to a smile, something not. “Now I think he’s probably in a river somewhere. Or the sea. Or in the ground, and someone else got to decide whether or not he deserved a name.”

Then, with a small, self-deprecating smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she tipped her head to the side and added, “Anyway. That’s my sob story. What’s yours? Since we're spilling our secrets over baklava.”

The silence hung heavy between them, yet Aslan hadn't moved or attempted to fill it in any way until she spoke. Only then did he shift slightly, like something in her words had struck deeper than expected, embedding itself before he had time to brace for it. It didn't show beyond the slight crease of his brow, the kind that hinted at a far off memory he was attempting to recall if he'd heard whispers of this story in their shared hometown.

All he could do was listen, though it felt as if he was filing each one into a place he didn't realize lived within him. There was something in her voice, in her eyes, that carried the weight of mourning someone whose fate had never been confirmed. It wasn't a plea for understanding, only a quiet release. A truth offered for the simple reason that it needed air.

Silently, he held her gaze, his jaw tightening instinctually in reaction, and in turn, his gaze briefly dipped to catch her grip around the tea glass tighten. "Didn't drag it. I'm sorry — about your brother." Words that seldom slipped from his tongue, but were entirely genuine towards Dilan. She'd deflected with the subject of tea, but he didn't follow that thread, instead, his focus remained on the moment. "This was in Izmir?"

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

There was something about the notion of being known that had always comforted her, some kind of tangible proof that others cared enough to notice things about her. So she smiles, one borne from the calm that familiarity brought, a slight wryness to the expression to show he'd gotten it right. "Me neither." As she wrapped her hands around the tea he handed her, he only proved he did know her better than she could have expected. An almost masterfully subtle distraction before she could spiral into the maelstrom of emotions that always threatened to swallow her whenever there was even the vaguest reference to Ozan. "A little, thanks." Maybe the sweetness would help the lump in her throat dissipate.

Small sip was taken, careful not to burn her tongue and ruin the taste of the tea. She was quiet for a moment, used to leaving silences for the comfort of others but not so used to being so at ease with them herself. Maybe it was just because she knew if Aslan wanted to say something he would, no room for anxiety to creep in and tell her that there were things going unsaid. That's why his statement doesn't spike panic the way it would from someone else, just raising her brow slightly. "Sounds ominous." Wry smile flickered over her lips but that soon faded to be replaced by a more genuine openness. "Ask away."

As the word retire rolled off her tongue, there was a shift in his expression. To Aslan, the thought of retirement had never crossed his mind. He can comprehend that for others it's a milestone. Nonetheless, it's never been situated in himself due to the life he led, where retirement came in the form of something much more permanent and morbid. So Zeina's version had taken a moment for him to catch up to. To which he offered a faint nod of his head in response. "Never pictured you retiring." Not in a bad way, he was simply telling her the truth. He knew the type well. Aslan had never found comfort in idleness either.

Though he'd turned his attention to pouring two glasses of tea, her sigh with the mention of Türkiye hadn't gone unnoticed. His lack of previous understanding faded with this specific topic. Here he can comprehend the heaviness of a place that held too many memories in the form of losing a sibling. While Esra had returned to his life, Zeina was still left with no answers in regard to her brother's whereabouts. The unknown enough to drive anyone mad. So he doesn't meet her gaze yet, except following a sip of the hot tea. "Sugar?" A distraction in itself to ask about the drink rather than if she's heard anything new pertaining to Ozan. And without allowing that thought to hang long, he turns his attention to a moment of business. "I have to ask you something."

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

"It's crossed my mind." Smile tugged at the corner of her lips in response to his attempt at humour. "But I think it would take all the soothing out of it if there was the pressure of it suddenly being my livelihood." It was the way she could take her time that was what comforted her, the knowledge that she could make something wonderful with effort and care. Churning out dish after this was an entirely different skill, one she didn't think she had the heart for. "Maybe if I retire." If, not when. Because she couldn't imagine her life without her work or without Kurtlar. The idea of stopping not one she truly wanted to entertain when it felt too much like she'd lose everything if she did hang up her scalpel. Only every knowing how to exist when she was needed.

Gaze flickered over his features at the mention of his bad mood, light hum the only acknowledgement she gave him. There was a desire to press, there always was, in some attempt to help whatever was weighing on him. But she didn't, instead leaving space for him to speak if he wanted to. The mention of Turkiye caused something to tighten in her chest, sigh slipping from her. "All the time." It had been home, after all. "But never enough to do anything about it." Not when there was the fear that it would bring back too many memories she was doing her best to avoid. Any happiness she might find undeniably tinged with grief. "Here feels as much like home as anywhere else." But maybe that was just because she'd always associated a home with a family rather than a place.

"Ever thought of joining your sister in law at Le Celeste? If the neurosurgeon route starts to bore you." It was a joke, at least, what counted as one in Aslan's books. Where they'd both lost familial ties (loosely used in reference to himself), Zeina seemed to work tirelessly to rebuild what she lacked, a stark contrast to Aslan where family was never something he could truly relate to. Esra had been the closest thing in his case. He understood the concept well enough; blood ties that bound people together, seen it within the structure of Kurtlar: the patriarchs and their children, his friends and their siblings. But for Aslan, reality was either he trusted someone completely or he didn't trust them at all. Zeina no less than the former.

"None of those," blame that on the fact half the muscles in his body had become numb over time, "but mood's always been a bit shit, so hard to tell." He glanced back at her, the corner of his lips lifting just enough to take the weight out of his words. He had never argued with her interrogations, as she referred to it, he just didn't see the need for them if the injury wasn't extensive, or something he could handle on his own. After a beat of silence, his gaze had drifted to the boiling kettle before he spoke again. "Ever think about going back to Turkiye?"

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

"But no less true." Soft but firm, verging on defensive. Perhaps he knew her habits too well for her to fool him but it didn't stop her from trying, "We all have our things that help us unwind." Although in her case it more often than not was just a Band-Aid over the ever open wound her anxiety caused. Never truly able to convince herself that things would be fine long enough for the wound to scab over and heal. Cooking a distraction, not the cure. "Good." She was satisfied, mostly, but then he left himself open to more and she was unable to resist rattling off a few more of the warning symptoms. "Nausea, confusion, mood changes, weakness or numbness in any limbs?" Gentle smile settled onto her lips, already eagerly anticipating the drink that she knew was coming her way. "If you say no, I promise I'll drop it and we can enjoy our teas without the interrogation."

"And lock it twice." The door, that was. Still, there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips in amusement. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count. "Therapeutic's a choice word for it." he muttered, following her into his home. Without much thought, he moved toward the kitchen in an attempt at his version of hosting. It wasn't elaborate, just familiar to customs she would recognize: the subtle routine of flicking on the kettle, pulling two cups from the shelf like muscle memory. And when she finally asked, in her own way that was careful not to overstep whilst laced with concern, he didn't look up. Though he didn't deflect either. At least he respected the directness of it, that she didn't need him performing a full examination, just a yes or no. "No concussion. Memory's intact. No seizures." As he flicked the kettle on, his gaze now drifted to meet hers. "Anything else?" The words weren't dismissive, just an indication that he was providing her the space to ask, if she felt she needed to.

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

It was almost ironic really, how she craved company but felt so unsettled in crowds. Her social battery waned quickly when she wasn't at work or with those she was familiar with and while she'd managed small talk there was no denying she was out of her element. Solace was sought on the top deck, brow raising slightly at the sight of a familiar face.

Hand waved in gentle peace offering, cigarette balanced delicately in her fingers. "I try to avoid being a hypocrite." Warmth was sent his way by way of a smile over the rim of her glass, half empty from her tentative sipping. "Besides, it seems as though you're well researched on the risks, I won't insult either of us by giving a sermon."

There's a light hum of acknowledgement at his question, seeing little point in denying what he most likely knew to already be true. "Though I don't think I've been that successful in finding a true reprieve." The deck was quieter but the sounds of the party still echoed towards them.

Silver lining was reached for out of eternal habit, not wanting the slight negative she'd found to linger in the air. "The view's something though." Gaze shifted to him then, briefly studying his features with careful inquisitiveness. He'd never been one to lean on her and she doubted that was about to start now but she couldn't help but check in. "And you? Just want to enjoy that in peace?"

FOR: @zeinaxsyedkerr LOCATION: yacht party

The glass door slid closed behind him with a soft click, muting the music and chatter from inside the upper floor. Aslan stepped onto the top deck looking for silence or at least a moment away from the forced politics of it all.

He lit his cigar slowly and waited for the flame to catch, for the tobacco to crackle, before exhaling a steady curl of smoke out toward the water.

He felt her before he saw her. Zeina always seemed to have that kind of presence—quiet, but warm, and calm. Still, he didn't move closer, just offered a slight nod in acknowledgment as he removed the cigar from his lips to balance between his fingers.

"Gonna start in about the health consequences? Equivalent to a pack of cigarettes, right?" After a brief pause, the corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk. "Tired of the noise?"

[zeinaxsyedkerr]

The faintest trace of amusement was noted, matching it with light words of her own. "If I say both will you shut the door on me?" Despite her joke she wasn't certain he was going to let her in, at least until he moved from the doorway. "I find it therapeutic." A distraction really, something to keep her mind and hands occupied so she didn't drive others away with her excessive need to reassure herself that everyone she cared about was fine. "They say you should make time for self care." They, as though she wasn't a medical professional herself. But there were times being a surgeon felt so far removed from other kinds of care. And others she simply ignored advice she knew she should take so she could continue to burn herself out just in case it kept others warm. "I know you'd have reached out if something were wrong but -" She still had to ask. "- no concussion, no memory loss or seizures?" The headbutt alone had been enough to make the neurosurgeon worry about a lasting impact.

"Check in or check on?" The words were flat but not unkind, if anything, they were laced in a faint amusement as he leaned against the doorframe. The aches in his body went ignored, not out of pride, but out of habit. For the fact violence had been imbedded in him since he were a child within Kurtlar's bounds. His eyes dropped briefly to the container in her hands, already knowing what it was before she spoke. Still, he didn't move from his position to let her in yet. Just nodded once, faintly, in a way that said he'd registered everything—the visit, the concern, the food. "I'll pretend to believe you." It came quieter, almost as a tease, before he pushed off the doorframe and nodded for her to come in. "Don't know how you find the time to do all that." In reference to her habit of cooking copious amounts of food while balancing work.

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan let out a faint breath through her nose, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Of course he’d caught that. She should’ve known he would. He didn’t miss much—at least, not the things you tried to keep tucked away.

Her fingers stilled around the glass, the steam now fading, warmth dissipating like a memory. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet—not in the way of someone unsure, but like someone setting something precious down very carefully, afraid of what it might become once out in the open.

“My brother,” she said. “He was ten. I was five.” The words were simple, but each one felt like stepping into a cold, dark room she hadn’t entered in a long time. Still, she didn’t look away.

“He went missing one afternoon and never came home.” No frills. No dramatic lead-up. Just that flat, quiet kind of truth that could only come from something you’d carried so long it had worn smooth.

There was no way to explain how those kinds of silences changed the shape of a family. How everything became a waiting room. Her mother had never stopped checking the locks, never stopped leaving the porch light on. Dilan had tried to leave, move forward, find shape and identity somewhere else—but still, she carried it.

“She stayed behind in case he ever finds his way back.” A pause. “I stopped believing that would happen a long time ago.”

Her thumb pressed gently into the side of the cup, like she needed something to ground herself in. Then, more lightly, maybe to keep herself from getting pulled under: “Didn’t mean to drag the conversation into the deep end. We can talk about the tea again, if you want. — It's really good, do you know the brand?”

Something about her demeanor shifted when she'd spoken of her mother as if she'd let something slip out that was solely meant for her, and not anyone else. The first crack in her infrastructure which Aslan's focus immediately pulled to, to settle onto what she wasn't saying, what that look in her eye that gleamed of sorrow and loss was attempting to say.

The silence hung between them for several beats, his gaze shifting over her features thoughtfully before he finally broke the quiet. "Who is he?" It was an intentional prompt, one that showed he wouldn't so easily skip over that first deeper hint into her life.

However, where she had left the first breadcrumb, Aslan had none to offer in return. There would be no explanation for a life shaped by a childhood far from ordinary. While other children played football in their yards, Aslan had been forged into a weapon. There was no motherly warmth, no trace of familial care or compassion in the world he’d known.

His head nodded at the question, a hint of a smile pulling on one side of his lips. "Still there." It wasn't entirely a lie, considering the closest thing to family he had—extensions of Kurtlar and Mikail Erdem—were still in Turkey.

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the rim of her glass, thumb slowly tracing along the condensation caused by the steam of the tea as if it might help her sort through what, exactly, she wanted to give him.

“She is,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but quieter than before. “She’s not the kind to leave, no matter what a place takes from her.” They were not alike in that way. Dilan had left Izmir and rarely been back since she had been accepted into university.

There was no flourish to it, no need to dress the truth up. Izmir was where her mother had last seen her son, where she'd buried her husband, where their family had unraveled and been left with frayed ends no one had the strength to tie back together. And still, she stayed.

“She thinks if she leaves, he won’t know where to come back to.” The words came softer this time, almost like she hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

Then, a breath, a blink, and the sharpness returned to her gaze. “And what about your family, still walking past the Agora everyday?” She realized with that question, that Aslan had somehow craftily dodged any return questions that had been asked, and Dilan, so lost in the nostalgia of home and peppered with his questions, hadn't noticed.

Seldom was he ever wrong, though it seemed the longer he sat before Dilan, and engaged with her in any way, that thought seemed to evoke doubts. Where he spent his life training meticulously to remember each crucial detail, this woman made his thoughts spin. As though she cast a haze over his mind that he couldn't quite see beyond no matter how hard he attempted.

Which only seemed to amplify with how simple her response was, or at least seemed to be. That phrase. That description. To her, it was her mother. But to Aslan, it's another taunt. Another puzzle piece that couldn't fit into the board strewn together in his mind. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it should have been nothing. But that feeling that he was missing something continued to invade him.

It broke his usual composure—his brow furrowing in thought. For once, the silence between them wasn't intentional. After a moment, he cleared his throat, reaching for his teacup and taking a sip before speaking again. "I can't quite place it, but I feel like I've heard it before."

Let it go, he told himself. The thought seemed to dissolve as he shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "Is your mother still in Izmir?" he asked, the question slipping out with ease.

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan arched a brow at Aslan’s casual challenge, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh, is that how it is?” she mused, reaching for the next piece of baklava as if already accepting the responsibility. “You’re just assuming I have some secret pipeline to better baklava? Bold of you.” But there was warmth in her tone, amusement woven through it. "You're not wrong though." she finished with a mischievous little smile.

The mention of Izmir lingered in the air between them, heavier than it should have been. That was happening a lot tonight—words that should’ve been light, easy, instead carrying a weight she couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was just the comfort of familiarity. Maybe it was something else entirely. She caught the way his gaze flickered, the way it seemed to search for something in her face, in her movements, in the bracelet she absently touched without thinking.

Then came the phrase.

Crisp like a secret, sweet like a lie.

She hadn’t expected it to resonate with him. Hell, she barely expected him to notice. But something shifted in his face when she said it, and for a moment, he looked like someone tracing a memory they couldn’t quite place. Like he was on the verge of remembering something just out of reach.

Dilan shook her head, swallowing her bite before answering. “No,” she said simply, watching him carefully. “It’s not common. I’ve never heard anyone else say it.” A pause, a flicker of something almost unreadable in her eyes. “Just my mother.”

She didn’t press further, but she didn’t have to. If he recognized it, then there was only one question left: from where?

Though paranoia flows through his veins, it's as if the entire world had been drowned out. There was nothing now that existed outside the woman before him and the pieces of her that he were attempting to trace. "Then you'll be the one to find us better baklava next time," he said lightly, his tone warm. "Or I'll have to book a one-way ticket back to Izmir for the real deal. Nothing compares, of course. But it's close enough for a taste of home."

His gaze flickered over her features, studying her as she joked, registering each tone of her laugh, her smile, the upward tilt of her lip to one side when she was amused. And as her hand reached out to retrieve the baklava, his eyes continually pulled down to that bracelet wrapped round her wrist. The gold chain she'd toyed with upon her first mention of Izmir to him. That perhaps wasn't the only place they had in common. Frankly, it seemed the map of their lives continued to overlap—Turkey, Europe, America. There had to be more commonality than simply locations.

It's a thought that's momentarily pushed to the side when he registered what she said. "Well, now you've gotten me started. Try these next." His head nodded towards the plate of Turkish delights, as his hand reached out without hesitation to pull it forth and place it before her, then with a fork, he'd poked a piece to hold up to her.

Crisp like a secret, sweet like a lie. That saying. It wasn't unfamiliar to Aslan. If anything, it was ringing in his ears, swirling through his mind on a continuous loop because he'd heard it before. Somewhere. Maybe it was from Isra's mother or Devran's father or one of the many figures who had briefly slotted into the role of a parent over the years. Or maybe it was simply a saying passed through the years, a piece of wisdom that had lingered in his mind.

He stared at her for a moment, the cogs in his mind turning silently, the only indication of his thoughts a brief blink before he nodded and let a smile settle back onto his lips. "I've heard that before. Is it a common saying?"