ROUNDS?

Leyla arched a brow, chewing slowly before setting her fork down with a soft clink against the plate. She crossed her arms and leaned forward slightly.

"What rounds, Ozan?" she challenged, her voice dripping with skepticism.

Ozan smirked, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he leaned against the counter, looking at her like she was the most entertaining thing in the room.

"The ones you'll keep losing," he said smoothly.

Leyla scoffed. "In your dreams."

Ozan tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "You're in my house, eating food I made, after running away and failing." He took a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down. "Tell me, Ateş, doesn't that feel like losing to you?"

Leyla exhaled sharply, gripping her fork again just to have something to do with her hands.

"That just means I was hungry," she shot back. "Not that I lost."

Ozan chuckled lowly, pushing off the counter. He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, until he was just close enough to lean down beside her ear.

"Keep telling yourself that, princess."

Leyla's fingers twitched, her jaw clenching, but she refused to move away. Instead, she picked up another bite.

Leyla leaned back in her chair, tapping her fork against the plate as she looked at Ozan with a casual, almost bored expression.

"By the way," she started, tilting her head slightly. "I need clothes."

Ozan, who had been sipping his whiskey, raised a brow at her. "Do you?"

Leyla rolled her eyes. "No, I was just saying it for fun." She gestured to her red dress—the same one from the party. It was slightly wrinkled now, a reminder of everything that had happened since last night. "I'm not going to walk around all day in this. So, give me something to wear."

Ozan smirked, setting his glass down. He took his time looking at her—slow, deliberate, teasing.

"You're quite demanding for someone who broke into my kitchen like she owns the place."

Leyla crossed her arms. "And you're quite slow for someone who claims to be in control of everything."

Ozan chuckled at that, shaking his head slightly. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward his bedroom. A few moments later, he came back with a neatly folded black shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He tossed them onto the chair next to her.

Leyla picked up the shirt, unfolding it. It was huge compared to her frame, the scent of his cologne lingering faintly in the fabric.

"This is yours," she stated flatly.

"Obviously," Ozan said, amused.

Leyla looked at the sweatpants and then back at him. "Do you not have anything... I don't know, my size?"

Ozan smirked. "Why would I? I don't usually kidnap women and keep their wardrobes ready."

Leyla exhaled sharply, standing up with the clothes in hand. "Fine. But if I drown in this, it's your fault."

Ozan watched as she walked toward the hallway leading to the bathroom, his smirk never fading. "Oh, don't worry, Ateş... I think you'll look good in my clothes."

Leyla changed into the oversized black shirt and sweatpants, rolling the waistband a few times to make them fit better. The fabric was soft, warm—too comfortable for something that belonged to a man like Ozan. She caught her reflection in the mirror and huffed. The shirt hung loosely off one shoulder, the sweatpants were dragging slightly, and overall... she looked like she had just walked out of his closet.

Great.

She ran a hand through her hair, muttering to herself. "Now I really look like I belong here."

Stepping out of the bathroom, she found Ozan leaning against the counter, casually scrolling through his phone. As soon as he saw her, he smirked—slow, amused, and entirely too pleased with himself.

"What?" she snapped.

Ozan's gaze flickered over her, dark eyes filled with something unreadable. "Nothing. Just... I was right. You do look good in my clothes."

Leyla rolled her eyes, walking past him toward the kitchen. "Shut up and make me something sweet. I want dessert."

Ozan let out a low chuckle. "Demanding as ever, Ateş."

Leyla tilted her head. "You live alone in this big house?"

Ozan didn't answer right away. He focused on stirring something in a pot, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled. "I prefer it that way."

Leyla studied him, catching the slight tension in his shoulders. There was something else beneath his words—something deeper. But she wasn't about to dig into his personal wounds.

Instead, she changed the topic.

"So... what are you making?"

Ozan smirked. "Something sweet. Like you asked."

Leyla frowned. "I swear, if you say something annoying like 'you'll taste it soon enough,' I'm throwing this at your head." She picked up a nearby apple, gripping it like a weapon.

Ozan laughed—actually laughed. The sound was deep, rich, and made something strange twist in her chest.

"Relax, Ateş," he said smoothly. "It's just chocolate soufflé. I do know how to behave... sometimes."

Leyla huffed, setting the apple down. "Good. Because I'm not in the mood for your games."

Ozan turned to face her fully, his dark eyes locking onto hers. His smirk was gone, replaced by something else—something quieter.

"Who said I'm playing, Leyla?" he murmured.