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It’s been ten days since the gun was found and Sherif was arrested, not that Iso was counting days or anything. But it had also been ten days since he and Fadime had started orbiting each other like strangers in the same house, careful, distant, pretending not to notice the gravity pulling them back. They moved around one another with polite nods and unfinished sentences, their usual banter replaced by a silence so deliberate it felt rehearsed. Before, they would argue over everything or laugh over nothing at all; now even the smallest joke died on their tongues. Because they both knew it. The truth had come out with the gun, heavy and undeniable, and with it came the conversation they had been postponing for days; the divorce. It waited between them like a loaded word neither of them dared to fire, and Iso hated how every time their eyes met, he could see she was counting the days too.
On the twelfth night, the bedroom felt smaller than ever. Iso lay on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling where faint cracks traced unfamiliar patterns in the dark. Above him, Fadime lay stiffly on the bed, turned toward the wall, her back a quiet declaration of distance. The room carried the soft rhythm of her breathing, steady, careful, as if even sleep had become something she had to control around him. Once, this space had been filled with whispered arguments that ended in reluctant laughter. Now there was only the stretch of silence between the floor and the bed, a few cruel feet that felt like an ocean. Iso wondered if she was awake too, counting the same invisible seconds, pretending that the space between them didn’t ache more than any words ever could.
Iso swallowed, the silence pressing too hard against his ribs. “Fadime…” he called softly, her name barely more than a breath in the dark.
“I’m awake,” she answered immediately.
Of course she was. Her voice was steady, but too quick, like she’d been waiting for him to say something, anything. For a second, neither of them continued. The air shifted, fragile, almost hopeful.
And then something scratched against the wooden floor.
Iso lifted his head just as a small shadow darted near the edge of the mattress. Fadime gasped, a sharp, unguarded sound, and bolted upright on the bed.
“Iso! What was that?” She whispered urgently.
Before he could answer, the tiny mouse scurried fully into view. Fadime let out a startled shriek and scrambled to the far corner of the bed, clutching the blanket like it could protect her from battle.
Iso blinked once… then twice. “Are you serious right now?”
“It’s a mouse!” she hissed, eyes wide, pointing dramatically at the floor. “Do something!”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, fighting the smile threatening to break through days of practiced detachment. “You play with guns,” he muttered dryly, glancing at her. “And goons… but this?” He gestured toward the tiny creature. “This is your weakness?”
Fadime shot him a glare that would have terrified anyone else. “Iso, I swear to God...”
The mouse squeaked again, and she instinctively reached toward him despite herself.
And for the first time in twelve nights, the distance between the floor and the bed didn’t feel quite as wide.
The mouse made another sudden dash toward the mattress, and before Iso could even think, he was on his feet.
“Don’t move,” he muttered, already stepping toward the bed.
“I am not moving!” Fadime snapped, though she was practically climbing the headboard.
He reached up instinctively, half to steady her, half to stop her from launching herself off the other side, and in the chaos of blankets and whispered curses, he ended up climbing onto the bed too. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned. One second he was on the floor, the next his knee was sinking into the mattress and his hand was braced against her waist to keep her from slipping.
They both froze.
They hadn’t been this close in days. Not like this.
Another squeak broke the moment.
“Unbelievable,” Iso muttered under his breath.
With a grimace, he grabbed the nearest towel from the chair, crouched on the bed, and waited for the mouse to dart again. When it did, he moved quickly, years of instinct kicking in, trapping it under the towel with a muffled thud.
“Did you get it?” Fadime whispered, peeking from behind his shoulder despite herself.
“Unfortunately.”
His expression twisted in visible disgust as he gathered the squirming bundle as far away from his body as possible. “If this thing bites me after everything I’ve survived, I’m going to be offended.”
Fadime would’ve laughed if she weren’t still clutching his sleeve.
He crossed the room in three quick strides, shoved the window open, and, with a swift, almost theatrical flick, threw the towel and its tiny captive out into the night.
He slammed the window shut immediately after, wiping his hands on his shirt like the entire experience had personally betrayed him.
“There,” he declared, shuddering. “Your arch, nemesis has been exiled.”
When he turned back around, Fadime was looking at him with her big eyes and iso could swear he felt his breath stop and his heart beat out of his chest at the same time, but it wasn’t something new to him.
Just as he was about to go back to his bed on the floor, he felt a tug on his shirt.
Fadime’s fingers were twisted tightly into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles pale, as if letting go would somehow bring the mouse back, or maybe something else. Iso followed the line of her grip slowly, his gaze traveling from her trembling hands to the space between them.
They were too close.
Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the thin cotton. Close enough that her breath brushed against his collarbone, uneven and shallow. Close enough that if either of them leaned forward, just a little, this would stop being an accident.
“Fadime,” he said quietly, but it came out rougher than he intended.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks. There was no anger there. No stubborn pride. Just something fragile… and painfully familiar.
Slowly, like she was only just realizing it, she became aware of how tightly she was holding him. Her grip loosened a fraction, but didn’t disappear.
“You climbed onto the bed,” she murmured suddenly, almost accusingly, as if that explained everything.
“You were about to jump off it,” he replied softly.
The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. For a second, just a second, it felt like before. Like late nights filled with stupid arguments and softer apologies.
But the word hovered there again.
Divorce.
It pressed between them even now, invisible but heavy. The silence shifted, no longer cold but charged. Dangerous.
“If we’re getting divorced,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “you should probably stop holding me like that.”
Her fingers tightened instead.
As if the word divorced had triggered the opposite reaction in her body.
Iso felt the slight pull in his shirt, the way she leaned closer without meaning to. The irony almost made him laugh, this was how they always were. Say something sharp, do something soft.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured.
“So are you,” she replied, but there was no heat in it.
The room had gone unbearably quiet again, except this time it wasn’t heavy with avoidance. It was fragile. Balanced on the edge of something, neither of them had the courage to name.
“If we’re getting divorced,” he continued, swallowing, “you shouldn’t look at me like that either.”
“Like what?” Her voice faltered just slightly.
“Like you’re about to lose something.”
A flicker crossed her face, anger, hurt, fear, he couldn’t tell which. Maybe all three.
“And you?” She shot back softly. “What about the way you look at me, Iso?”
That hit where it was supposed to.
He hadn’t meant to climb up on her bed. Hadn’t meant to talk about the divorce. Hadn’t meant to memorize the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks. Hadn’t meant to look at her ... in any way.
“You were scared so I was just looking at you with sympathy,” he said.
“And now?”
Now.
The question lingered between them, raw and exposed.
His hand slowly, almost cautiously, went to her waist but instead of stepping back, he stayed. Close enough that their foreheads nearly brushed.
“Now I don’t know how to stop looking at you,” he admitted, and it sounded nothing like the man who had been so certain about claiming Fadime Kocari as his mortal enemy months back.
Fadime’s breath caught.
For ten days they had avoided this conversation because it would mean facing the truth after the gun was found, after everything fell in place or apart, and there were no lies left to protect them. Divorce was their logical next step. Clean. Final.
But nothing about this felt clean.
“If we sign those papers…” she began, her voice barely steady, “will this stop?”
Iso didn’t answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
It wouldn’t.