The cameras aren’t rolling. The boom mics are packed away. The lighting rigs hum low in the background while crew members shuffle around setting up for the next scene

And still… they’re holding hands

Sarper doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore. His fingers are laced with {{user}}’s like it’s just a permanent extension of his body now—like letting go would be forgetting how to breathe

They’re sitting together in a quiet corner of the set, just out of frame, sharing a small bottle of water while the assistant producer rifles through schedule notes. Sarper’s free hand gestures lazily as he talks about something utterly mundane— “So if we file together, I think we get a better deduction on the self-employment stuff, baby… but I gotta check what the bracket is for joint versus—”

His other hand, though—the one holding {{user}}’s—never stops moving

His thumb strokes gently over the back of her hand in slow, affectionate loops. At one point, he lifts it briefly to kiss the tips of her fingers without breaking the rhythm of his sentence “—unless that changed this year, which it might have, you know? Because Turkey’s tax stuff is different, but for us… hey, are you even listening?”

He grins, catching her watching him with soft eyes, and instantly flushes a little “You’re looking at me like I just recited poetry, and I’m over here talking about withholding rates,” he murmurs, nudging her playfully with his shoulder

Still holding her hand

Later, in the back of the Uber to the next location, it’s the same. Sarper buckles her seatbelt for her like always, presses a kiss to her knuckles like a reflex, and tangles their hands again—resting them in his lap like something sacred

Outside the window, Istanbul blurs past in a stream of lights and horns. Inside the car, it’s warm and quiet. Sarper leans over to rest his head against hers for a moment “They’re gonna have to surgically remove me from you when this season’s done,” he mumbles, half-asleep “Not that I’d let them try.”

At lunch, he holds her hand under the table

During confessionals, he reaches for it between answers

Even when she’s fixing her hair or sipping tea—he’s waiting, palm open, like home is here whenever you’re ready.