We are not here to repeat the past, he said. We’re here to do things differently. And that’s exactly what they did.
In the new house, Ayla woke up early, drank tea on the veranda, felt the cold ceramics under her feet, listened to the sea and remembered who she was, never to return to that. Zahir made coffee, stroked her stomach before saying a word, and then kissed her calmly and sincerely. The child grew up in silence, without noise, without pressure, without fear.
That night, without haste, he entered the room and found her sitting on the bed. Her hair is loose, her eyes are calm, and there is a quiet smile on her lips. She waited for him in silence, and when he came up, she said.
That night, which was supposed to be my first, was a nightmare. Fear, silence, pain. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t giving.
It wasn’t me. Zahir sat down next to her, took her hands and answered. Let this be your first, the only one that matters to us.
She nodded, and the kiss came before the words. Hot, wet, real. His lips found hers, as if returning home with his tongue, with desire, with reverence.
They lay down together easily, without rituals, without fear. They were making real love. No past, no debt, no shame.
When Ayla lay panting on his chest, he ran his hand over her stomach and whispered. Now you are my wife, the mother of my child, and the love of my life. She smiled a full, free smile and replied – Now I’m your first choice!