Chapter 1: Collision of Old Sparks
The dimly lit bar buzzed with the hum of late-night confessions and clinking glasses. Yağmur sat at the counter, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd, a glass of crimson wine in her hand. She was a vision—dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her posture commanding, exuding a confidence that turned heads. Beside her, Berke, a casual fling, laughed too loudly at something she hadn’t even said. She rolled her eyes, already bored.
Then, she saw him. Kenan. Her heart stuttered, not out of longing, but out of raw, unresolved fury. He stood near the entrance, his rugged frame filling out a leather jacket, his gaze locking onto hers like a predator spotting prey. Years had passed since his betrayal shattered her, yet the sting felt fresh. She straightened, her jaw tightening.
“Well, damn, if it isn’t the ghost of fuck-ups past,” Yağmur muttered, loud enough for him to hear as he approached, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Missed me, huh?” Kenan shot back, his voice a low growl, dripping with arrogance. “You look good, Yağmur. Too good for this clown.” He nodded toward Berke, who bristled instantly.
“Watch your mouth, man,” Berke snapped, standing up, his chest puffing out like a cheap imitation of toughness.
Yağmur raised a hand, silencing Berke without even looking at him. “I can handle my own battles, thanks. Kenan, you’ve got some nerve showing up here, acting like you didn’t stab me in the back.”
“Oh, come on, sweetheart. We were fire together. You can’t deny that,” Kenan said, stepping closer, the scent of his cologne—a familiar, maddening mix of leather and musk—invading her space.
“Fire burns, asshole. And I’m not in the mood to get scorched again,” she retorted, but her voice wavered, just for a split second. He noticed. Of course, he did.
Before she could throw another barb, Berke shoved Kenan, and chaos erupted. Fists flew, glasses shattered, and within moments, Kenan was on the floor, his lip split, a gash above his eye trickling blood. Yağmur sighed, exasperated, but something in her stirred—concern, maybe, or something darker.
“Get lost, Berke,” she barked, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist. He hesitated, then stormed off, muttering curses. She knelt beside Kenan, pulling a napkin from the bar to press against his bleeding lip. “You’re still a reckless idiot, you know that?”
He grinned, wincing slightly. “And you’re still a goddamn angel, even when you’re pissed. Missed this—your hands on me.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, but her fingers lingered on his jaw, her touch softer than she intended. Their eyes locked, and the air between them crackled, heavy with unspoken history. Her breath hitched as she felt the heat of him, the old pull she’d fought so hard to bury.
“Yağmur,” he murmured, his voice rough, pleading. And then, in a moment of pure, reckless abandon, she was in his lap, her thighs straddling him right there on the sticky bar floor. Their lips crashed together, hungry, desperate, tasting blood and wine and years of pent-up need.
“You’re a bastard,” she hissed between kisses, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“And you love it,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer. “Always did.”
“Not here,” she said, pulling back, her chest heaving, her mind racing but her body already decided. “Your car. Now.”
Kenan didn’t argue. He stood, pulling her with him, their bodies pressed tight as they stumbled out of the bar, the night air cool against their flushed skin. The promise of what was coming hung between them—raw, urgent, and unstoppable.
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