oğul

Ozan steps outside to take the call, his usual cold demeanor settling in. His voice is sharp, businesslike, as he speaks in low tones.

But then—his gaze shifts.

Leyla's mother.

She's struggling with a few heavy bags, her brows furrowed as she tries to manage everything at once. Ozan watches for a second, his instincts battling with his usual indifference.

And then, before he even realizes it, his feet move on their own.

He ends the call and approaches her. "Let me help."

Leyla's mother looks up, a little surprised. "Oh, dear, no, you don't have to—"

Ozan doesn't wait for permission. He takes the bags with ease, the weight barely affecting him. "It's fine."

A warm smile spreads across her face. "Such a good boy."

And then, she says it.

"Thank you, oğul" (son)

Ozan freezes.

It's just a word. A simple word. But it hits harder than it should.

His fingers tighten around the handles of the bags. A strange warmth spreads through his chest—a warmth he doesn't recognize.

Because no one… no one has ever called him that before.

For a moment, he doesn't know what to say. He just nods, forcing himself to move, to act like it didn't affect him. Like it didn't matter.

But as they walk inside, carrying the bags together, something inside Ozan shifts.

And he hates it.