Friends?

The moment settled.

The silence that had pressed heavily against her shoulders began to dissolve, unraveling in slow, quiet fragments.

Eda exhaled, feeling the tension in her limbs ease just slightly as she recollected what had just happened, watching the ink swirl in the basin as Able washed the remnants from his face.

It was ridiculous.

The sheer absurdity of it—her panic, the way Thomas had barked at her, the way Able hadn’t reacted at all, just stood there, drenched and mildly entertained.

She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the laugh that threatened to slip free.

And then—despite her best efforts—a chuckle escaped.

Able lifted his gaze, hands still cupped beneath the stream of water. “What’s so funny?”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head quickly, trying to smother the laughter before it could grow into something uncontrollable.

But it was too late.

Another breath, another attempt at restraint—and it burst through anyway.

She laughed. Fully, uncontrollably, unfiltered.

The sound was light, breathless, spilling from her lips as she bent slightly, trying, failing, to suppress it.

Able stood, watching her, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then—he moved.

Not abruptly, not forcefully, but with the kind of ease that carried confidence, amusement. He closed the space between them, stopping just inches from her, close enough for her to feel the quiet warmth radiating from him, close enough for the air between them to shift.

Her breath hitched.

The laughter caught somewhere in her throat, suspended.

Her heart lurched—too fast, too sharp, its rhythm stuttering against her ribs.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Able tilted his head slightly, observing, letting the quiet stretch between them before— he laughed.

It was soft at first, just a breath of amusement, then fuller, carried by the same lightness that had overtaken her.

And just like that, her laughter returned, spilling over again, matching his.

It was ridiculous.

Absurd.

And somehow—entirely perfect.

She caught her breath between fading chuckles, wiping at the corner of her eyes as she straightened, shaking her head, still breathless.

“I’m so sorry,” she admitted, eyes still dancing with lingering amusement. “It’s not funny. It’s really not funny, but I—” she exhaled, shaking her head, forcing control into her voice. “I can’t help it.”

Able rinsed the last streak of ink from his hands, stretching his fingers beneath the water before flicking stray droplets away, shaking his head faintly.

“The problem,” he mused, expression thoughtful, “is if you start laughing again after I’ve cleaned the ink off my face.”

Eda blinked at him, lips pressing together again in restraint.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, watching her, and amusement flickered in his gaze once more.

“It’s not my face, is it?” he guessed, reading her easily, intuitively. “It’s the whole situation?”

She nodded, suppressing another chuckle, her laughter now just a faint echo, a breath caught in the space between them.

Able exhaled, running his fingers through his damp hair before sighing, lifting his gaze once more.

“Well, at least you have a sense of humor,” he murmured, the slightest smirk forming at the edge of his lips.

...****************...

Able ran a hand over his face, feeling the last traces of dampness settle into his skin. He exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if testing the weight of it, then lifted his gaze toward Eda.

“Did I miss any spots?”

She hesitated for half a second before lifting her finger, pointing just below his left cheek. “There. You missed a spot.”

He ran his palm over his face, rubbing at the area she indicated, his brows pulling together slightly when it didn’t seem to disappear.

Eda watched his failed attempt, the amusement sparking at the edges of her restraint.

“Not quite,” she murmured.

Able stilled for a fraction of a breath, then closed the space between them again, deliberate, unhurried, until the distance was reduced to something undeniable.

“Then you get it,” he said simply. “The least you could do is take responsibility.”

Her pulse faltered, stumbled into something hurried and unsteady. She forced stillness into her posture, ignoring the rhythm pounding against her ribs, ignoring the heat that curled into her throat.

“What are you waiting for?”

His voice was calm, patient in the way that made it worse.

Eda lifted her hand, pressing her fingers gently against his cheek, the warmth of his skin a quiet contrast against the coolness of lingering water. She wiped carefully, concentrating on her movements, but the moment lengthened, stretched.

He watched her.

His gaze didn’t falter, didn’t shift away. He took his time, quietly studying her face, her reaction, the hesitation in her fingers, the brief catch of her breath when their eyes met.

And then—the interruption.

“Eda!”

Her father’s voice carried from a distance, firm but not urgent. “Have you helped him?”

She yanked her hand back as if burned, stepping away abruptly, the last traces of warmth disappearing as she twisted toward the sound.

Without another word, she turned, moving swiftly in the direction of her father, as though the moment had never occurred at all.

Able watched her go, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, shaking his head slightly as he raked a hand through his damp hair, fingers combing through the strands with lazy ease.

The women in the city never looked away. Their gazes never faltered. Their confidence was crisp, trained, undeniable.

This was different.

And he found himself lingering in the thought longer than he expected.

He exhaled, shaking off the remnants of amusement before nodding absently, stepping forward, trailing in Eda’s wake.

...****************...

Eda had just returned to her work, settling back into the familiar rhythm of inking the threads she had left unattended when she felt a presence behind her. Before she had a chance to react, a voice interrupted her focus.

“Oh, it’s me,” Able said, lifting his hands slightly as if in surrender. “Don’t soak me in ink again. You’d have to take responsibility.”

She turned, surprised but amused, before setting the jug down with deliberate ease. “Are you looking around the workshop?”

“I’m just starting,” he admitted, glancing around the space before his gaze settled back on her. “But I might need someone to walk me through it, show me how things work.”

Eda nodded. “Hold on, I’ll get my dad. He’ll show you around.”

Able’s brow lifted slightly. “‘My dad’?”

She laughed softly. “Mr. Aziz.”

His expression shifted slightly with recognition. “Oh. You’re the manager’s daughter?”

“Don’t we look alike?” she teased.

Able studied her for a beat before smiling faintly. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Then, with a half-shrug, he added, “Why bother your father? You should take responsibility. Show me around.” His tone was effortless, unbothered, carrying the casual amusement that had lingered in his interactions since the morning. “I’ve never been to Cordia before—it’s my first time.”

Eda smiled, playing into it. “Then I should definitely take responsibility.”

She quickly gathered her things, telling Able to wait while she informed her father. After a brief exchange with Mr. Aziz, she returned, leading Able through the workshop, walking him past the spaces where artisans worked—where the ink was mixed, where textiles were cut, where printing designs were pressed carefully into the fabric.

Outside, as they moved beyond the cluster of weaving stations, Able slowed his steps, his gaze shifting when a horse passed across the street.

“You have horses on the streets?” he asked, the genuine curiosity lacing his voice.

Eda glanced at him with faint amusement. “What did you expect?”

His lips tugged into something playful. “I don’t know. I suppose I forget that not everything is paved and predictable here.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Have you ever been on a horse? Do you even know how to ride one?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Are you offering to teach me?”

Eda huffed. “On our busiest day?”

Able exhaled, feigning contemplation. “Well, since I’m here to visit and you’re taking responsibility, you might as well show me.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly in thought before nodding toward the horse grazing nearby. “Fine. But if you fall while it’s galloping, don’t make me take responsibility for that too. That’ll be on you.”

They both laughed, the sound effortless between them as Eda led him toward the horse.

Across the street, her father and several workers had been lingering, tending to their own responsibilities, until one of them turned and noticed Eda helping Able onto the horse.

Mr. Aziz stiffened, his expression shifting instantly.

“Eda!” His voice carried across the space, firm, filled with warning. “What are you doing putting him on a horse? He’s a city boy! How would he know how to ride?”

Eda turned slightly, but before she could respond, Able lifted his voice, his tone calm, measured despite the distance.

“It’s my fault, Mr. Aziz. I asked her to.”

There was a beat of hesitation before one of the factory workers glanced at Mr. Aziz and muttered something under his breath, half-teasing, half-cautioning.

“You know city boys. They’re playboys mostly. You shouldn’t let him linger around a beautiful girl like her.”

Mr. Aziz didn’t react with amusement. His gaze darkened, sharpening as he directed a cold stare toward the speaker, silencing him instantly before shifting his attention back to Eda and Able.

They were laughing again—something light, unburdened—while Eda guided Able through the initial steps of riding.

Something in Aziz tightened at the sight.

The ease in Able’s demeanor.

The way their exchange didn’t carry the hesitation of new acquaintances.

Instinctively, his stance shifted, his feet moving almost unconsciously in their direction.

When he reached them, his voice was even, firm, carrying expectation.

“If you want to learn to ride properly, you should learn from the best.” His gaze flickered toward Able. “I’ll teach you.”

The weight of his presence settled between them, the unspoken directive clear.

Then, without waiting, Aziz turned back toward the workshop.

“Eda, go back to work.”

Able dismounted swiftly, the movement too practiced, too effortless for someone unfamiliar with riding.

Eda caught the way he landed, the ease with which his feet met the ground, and suspicion flickered in her mind. He had moved with certainty, not hesitation, as if he had done this countless times before.

She narrowed her gaze slightly, but before she could voice her thoughts, Able turned toward Mr. Aziz with a calm, assured presence.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Aziz,” he said, brushing a hand absently over his damp shirt. “This won’t be the last time I visit Cordia.”

With that, he followed after Eda, walking alongside her as they headed back to the workshop.

When they neared the entrance, Eda glanced at him quietly, her voice just above a whisper.

“So you do know how to ride a horse.”

Able huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “It was a cute attempt for you to try to teach me,” he admitted, amusement glinting in his expression. “I’ve been riding since I was little. Being a city boy doesn’t mean I don’t know what horses are—we just don’t have them like this. They’re not as accessible.”

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly, and laughed with him.

Able turned to her with that same ease, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well,” he mused, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, and you’ve taken responsibility, we can finally become friends.”

Eda blinked at him, the words carrying an effortless certainty, an assumption that left little room for denial.

And yet—she found herself smiling.

Able caught it instantly, leaning slightly toward her as he exhaled. “I’ll take the smile as an agreement.”

As they walked, neither of them noticed Mr. Aziz trailing just slightly behind, his gaze sharp, his posture subtly guarded.

He listened—not obviously, not forcefully, but enough to catch the exchange.

When they neared the workshop entrance, he moved with quiet calculation, stepping between them as if by accident, but with unmistakable intent.

He didn’t say a word.

Simply passed by—but not before casting Able the faintest, firmest stink eye.

...****************...