The Art of Istanbul [Part I: Strait]
Summary: In a New York minute, Noa heads “strait” where continents meet. İstanbul’a Hoş Geldiniz! The City of the World’s Desire hosts the Champions League final as Vaughn and Theo face each other on the pitch for the first time. Away from the stadium lights, Noa takes a meeting that will reshape the trajectory of her career.
A/N: All aboard, Movers! We’re crossing continents and heading east! Arc 4 is my first time experimenting with parallel, asymmetrical storytelling for Noa and Theo, and building episodes around a mostly single-artist soundtrack. Rating: Harder than it looks. Round of applause for me — and a cigarette.
Master List
Full Episode Soundtrack
The Weight of My Words by Kings of Convenience
Noa’s Room 505, Dormitory 5th Fl, Prishtina
“Faleminderit, shumë,” Noa said, swapping her heels for flip flops.
She slid out of the sedan and flicked the door shut, legs propelling her up five flights of steps, breath rising and falling with each step.
She raced to 505, clicked the door open, and moved to the suitcase, tossing things into the bag — shirt, dress, hoodie, pants, toothbrush, charger.
She turned and opened Messages on her phone.
Noa: Coming home.
Deleted.
Theo. Coming home.
She exhaled and deleted the sentence again.
Typed again.
Home?
Deleted again.
“Ugh.” She flopped on the bed, slightly shifting the suitcase as her back dipped into the mattress. With outstretched arms, she thumbed and deleted at least five times.
Theo broke me. Home. Theo broke me. Can I come home? Theo. Can I come home? Theo hurt me.
She rolled on her side and opened Notes instead, thumbing a list.
Istanbul logistics
Saudi follow-ups
Basel prep
She typed three words.
Deleted them.
Her chest tightened as the first tear fell.
She quickly swiped it away and opened
Contacts. Mom.
“Hello.”
A wail erupted in waves across the line, heavy breathing, and deep exhales before another shrill cry mounted and leapt out.
“I know.”
Her mom’s voice echoed softly through the line.
Viv, I read your email and will have the materials ready for Istanbul. Will connect when I land. Noa
“Ticket to New York, please,” she said, sliding her passport across the desk.
So Mi Like It by Spice
Noa’s Hood, Brooklyn
The cab slowed to the curb of a multi-story brick apartment building just inside the crosswalk as the light blinked red. Dogs jerked owners forward on multicolored leashes, tires screeched as cars zipped from parked positions, joggers anxiously shifted weight from left to right, glancing down at FitBits on wrists. Cars lined along the curb under lush green arbors, shielding the bright blue sky with thin, wispy clouds.
“Thanks,” Noa murmured, tapping her phone to the stationed kiosk on the plastic window. She quickly thumbed her signature across the screen before clenching the door handle and stepping outside.
She slid her duffel from the worn leather seat and moved toward the aged red and tan brick building. Black metal fire escapes ran vertically along the building. An arched entranceway with light-colored stucco framing. A low black metal fence bordered a narrow strip of grass with a DO NOT PARK YOUR DOG HERE sign directing the concrete sidewalk running parallel to parked cars.
“Of course they didn’t fix this.” She sighed, glancing up at the small exterior light fixture mounted above the doorway missing a light bulb.
She hoisted the bag further up her shoulder, digging for her keys. She twisted the silver key into the metal-and-glass front door and walked through the arch.
Yes a so mi like it.
“Every mawnin’, same ting,” a voice called out from 1A. “Mi sweep, mi greet, mi deh yah.”
An intense aroma of sweet, spicy, smoky scents zapped her nostrils as bass boomed into the rectangular lobby.
Look pon mi body, yo mi wine it.
“Hey, Mr. Lenny,” Noa waved.
“Been a long time, yuh know. Yuh a ghost round here, NJ,” he grinned, tapping his broom against the off-white stucco wall. He shuffled closer, arms wide. “Come yah.”
Cinnamon, apricot, pungent garlic and ginger swirled up toward the high ceilings, bass thudding through the exposed beams.
How mi kotch it and a wine it.
“Let mi see yuh good,” he said, lifting his glasses from his chest and squinting at her face. He pulled her into a tight hug. “Yuh look good… but too quiet. Dat nuh right.”
Bubble and a siddung and a wine it.
A loud thud shook the chandelier, a voice shouted, “Turn it down, Shanice!”
“Mind yuh business!” Shanice yelled back, laughing, the bass cranking louder. “Is Saturday!”
From the other side of the hall, a woman’s voice rose clear and steady.
“Take me to the Kinggggggg—”
“Lawd,” Mr. Lenny muttered. “Everybody got dem own soundtrack, yuh know.”
Noa’s sneakers squeaked across the newly polished geometric tiled floor; dusty pinks, greens, creams, and black outlines — as she moved toward the row of mailboxes. Mr. Nelson’s rusty black metal bike leaned crookedly against them, dust puffing up as she brushed past.
Yes a so mi like it.
“Mr. Nelson,” she groaned, nudging the handle aside with her foot.
CLICK.
A sea of white and brown envelopes burst free, skidding across the tile.
“Yuh never in di building,” someone sucked her teeth behind her. “Mail a come every day, yuh know.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Trudy,” Noa said, turning toward the woman in the multicolored dashiki.
At that moment, metal clanged loudly. Mailboxes flew open and shut in quick succession.
“Y’all have got to start checking your mail!” Marcus called, already sorting. “Same time, every day. And it’s still full from yesterday.” He turned, eyes narrowed in on Noa. He kissed his teeth and kept sorting.
Noa rolled her eyes and ignored him.
“Marcus, yuh too serious,” Ms. Trudy said.
“It’s my job Ms. Trudy,” he replied, “Gots to do my job,” keys jangling as he moved down the row.
Ms. Trudy looked Noa up and down. “Yuh nuh look good, yuh know. Too skinny.” She kissed her teeth.
“Ms. Trudy.”
“Tuh!” Ms. Trudy waved a hand. “Mi a mek jerk chicken an rice an peas. “Come get a plate tonight. Nuh argue wid mi.”
Ms. Trudy caught her reflection in the antique gold-trimmed mirror above the mailboxes, adjusted her earrings, then glided down the hall, the chandelier trembling with bass as she went.
Noa moved toward the three-step landing where the hallway narrowed.
“Ugh,” she groaned.
ELEVATOR BROKEN AGAIN. — scratched out and replaced with — THIS ELEVATOR ALWAYS FUCKING BROKEN. WHAT IS NEW!
She half-laughed as she climbed toward the fourth floor.
She was home.
Jean Robson in 3B was already arguing with someone through his door, “Tiara. You were tweeting on Twitter! You are lying.,” he screamed, soca blasting, the smell of soup joumou drifting up the stairwell.
She burst out laughing, shaking her head as she made her way up the last flight of stairs, her head pounding, legs cramping, bag sliding lower on her throbbing shoulder.
Homesick by Kings of Convenience
Noa’s Apartment, Brooklyn
She twisted the key into the lock, stumbled into the door, bag on her shoulder, phone clutched in the other.
“You look tired,” her mom said, already reaching for a hug.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
A large, slender, brown and black dog, ears the shape of cheesy Doritos, skidded across the floor, his entire back end wiggling like Slinky from Toy Story.
“Basil,” Noa cooed.
She untangled her body from her mom, slid her bag to the floor and crouched down to pat her dog.
Her mom was already halfway toward the kitchen, steam rising through the apartment dragging the smell of hibiscus.
“Tired ain’t the word,” Noa said, flopping on the couch, Basil curled at her feet, already snoring.
“I am bone weary,” she exhaled, just as her mom returned to the room with a steaming mug, “But this smells good, thank you!,” she grinned, taking the mug and a tiny sip.
“Yolanda found it on sale,” her mom smiled. “Grabbed us each a bag and I put half in your cabinet,” she nodded toward the kitchen.
Her mom quietly slid into a nearby chair, gaze narrowed and examining.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“You eat?”
“Barely.”
“Hmm.” Her mom nodded.
Noa sipped her tea, set the mug down, and stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging her mom again.
Her mom held her a second longer, then let go.
Noa slept so long she never felt her leave.
The apartment smelled faintly of jerk chicken, rice and peas, and stale red wine.
Noa lay stretched across the couch in Rossoneri Milano sweats, a half-empty bowl of chips balanced on her stomach. Basil slept at her feet, twitching occasionally in his dreams.
“…marriage didn’t kill him. Divorce finished the job.”
DUN. DUN.
The theme music swelled softly, then cut back to voices.
Noa didn’t change it.
“…I’ve got a body that says one thing and a witness that says another.”
She hadn’t changed much of anything.
Basil lifted his head and whined.
Noa didn’t answer him at first.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
Basil loomed over her, brown eyes locked on her.
“Okayyyyy,” she sighed, pushing herself off the couch. “Let me shower first,” she said, and padded to the bathroom.
Basil’s leash lay coiled by the door.
Noa stood there longer than necessary before picking it up.
They crossed the doorway, Noa lagging a step behind as Basil darted out into the hallway.
Just then a brown wire haired pointer sprinted from the top stair, skidding in front of Basil.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
Barks echoed through the hallway, bouncing off the marble floor and stucco walls.
“Ernest Fiorenza!,” a voice called out.
Basil and Ernest circled each other in a duel, jumping from left to right.
Seconds later, a blonde woman with glasses rose from the staircase, breathing in shallow breaths.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
“Jesus, Ernest, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
She gestured, reaching to tug his leash, “Come here.”
“Hey, Jen, long time,” Noa said, pulling Basil’s leash.
“Hey NJ.”
Noa laughed. “Mr. Lenny has converted you too, huh?”
“It just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think,” she winked, crossing the adjacent door to Noa’s, unlocking the door.
“You sticking around this time?”
“Few days.”
“I wish I had such an interesting life,” Jen sighed.
“Sometimes it is,” Noa smiled, “Come on Basil, let’s go,” she pulled him forward toward the staircase.
Jen leaned out of the door, “Prospect Park play date when you’re finally back?”
“Of course,” Noa called, descending the stairs.
Little Kids by Kings of Convenience
Prospect Park, Brooklyn
They headed across the street toward the park, Basil pulling through the sidewalk, straining forward, tail high, nails clicking against the pavement. Kids on scooters cut too close, wheels rattling, one shouting “Watch it!” without slowing. A basketball thumped somewhere off to the right. Laughter spilled from a stoop, then dissolved into music.
“Basil!” a voice called.
His ears perked instantly, tail wagging hard enough to throw his hips sideways.
They waited at the light as the bus hissed to a stop, doors folding open, bodies spilling out in a rush. Someone bumped her shoulder.
“My bad,” he muttered without stopping.
Across the street, a guy in shorts held four leashes looped over one wrist, a loose pack circling his legs — Maggie, the English setter, whining; Hank, the Bluetick coonhound, sniffing; Lulu, the Great Dane, standing solid and patient at his heel; Dini pacing tight figure-eights, alert and vibrating with energy.
“Hey, Mike,” Noa called, lifting a hand as they crossed the street.
“Didn’t know you were back,” he said, grinning as Basil trotted toward them. “Man’s been missed.”
Basil barked once, scooting closer to the group. Maggie answered immediately, pulling against her leash. Lulu just watched, tail thumping once against the curb.
“The pack wants you back, Base,” Mike added, looking down at Basil. “Adventures await.”
“For sure,” Noa said. “Soon,” she smiled, tugging Basil forward before he could drag her into the tangle of leashes.
Reggae drifted from an open car window. At the corner, a woman paced in tight circles, phone held out in front of her.
“No, the train is not running at that stop,” she snapped, eyes fixed on the screen.
Basil veered toward a dropped bag of chips. “No,” Noa said. He huffed, offended.
Down the block, the subway roared beneath the street, a low thunder she felt more than heard. Basil pulled forward again, tail high.
At the bodega, Noa ducked inside for a drink.
DING.
A gray cat lounged on top of the freezer, eyes narrowing as Basil crossed the threshold, her hiss cut through the air.
Basil barked, startled, lunging once before Noa yanked the leash back.
“No,” she said firmly, crouching to steady him.
“Relax, Wilhelmina,” the guy behind the counter said, amused.
“You see her,” he said, glancing up now. “She don’t move.”
Wilhelmina’s tail flicked.
“He hate that.”
Noa laughed. “Always.” She grabbed a cold bottle from the cooler. “Hey, Omar.”
Basil growled at Wilhelmina, as Noa slapped bills on the counter.
“You back?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t be stranger.”
She nodded and was back outside before the bell finished ringing.
Basil surged forward, dragging her the rest of the way down the block, tail high, ears alert. Ahead, music spilled through open doors, bass slipping out onto the sidewalk in uneven bursts.
“Back again?” a neighbor called from a folding chair on the stoop, beer balanced between his knees.
“For a minute,” Noa said, lifting the bottle in acknowledgment.
Her phone buzzed as Basil tugged toward the curb.
She glanced down long enough to catch the name at the top.
Star Wars Pup Reunion (12).
She slid the phone back into her pocket without opening it and followed him.
Waiting in Vain by Bob Marley
Miss Mavis: Wallace & Basil, Theo’s Restaurant, Brooklyn
I don't wanna wait in vain for your love
Music spilled through the open doors, bass slipping out onto the sidewalk in uneven bursts.
I don't wanna wait in vain for your love
Heat rose off the concrete, clinging to ankles and calves, mixing with the smell of jerk smoke and fryer oil from inside.
From the very first time I placed my eyes on you, girl
The hostess moved too fast between tables, sandals slapping, chair legs scraping as she threaded through bodies and plates.
“Who fi order di curry goat?”
“What yuh order?”
“We nuh have that.”
“Suck yuh madda.” Someone shouted back near the kitchen.
My heart says follow through
Noa took Basil to an open table near the edge, the bright awning shading the pavement. She tied his leash to the leg of the table and sat, shoulders immediately sagging.
But I know, now, that I'm way down on your line But the waitin' feel is fine
The waitress came over with a pad already in hand.
“Wha yuh wah eat, love?”
So don't treat me like a puppet on a string 'Cause I know how to do my thing
Noa ordered without looking at the menu. “Oxtail with rice and peas. An’ a Red Stripe—” she paused. “No, wait. A Heineken.”
The waitress nodded, scribbled, and turned to go.
“Basil. Hey.”
Don't talk to me as if you think I'm dumb.
She stopped. Turned back.
“Basil?” she said, smiling, curious.
I wanna know when you're gonna come See, I don't wanna wait in vain for your love I don't wanna wait in vain for your love I don't wanna wait in vain for your love She tipped her chin toward the door. “Wi name Miss Mavis Wallace an Basil.” 'Cause if summer is here I'm still waiting there
Noa looked up, quietly staring at the woman for a second.
“This,” she leaned to rub his head. “Is Basil.”
The waitress studied her, one hand settling on her hip, eyes narrowed.
Winter is here And I'm still waiting there
“Tsk.” She kissed her teeth and headed back into the restaurant, the music surged again as the door swung open.
Like I said It's been three years since I'm knockin' on your door And I still can knock some more
Basil settled at Noa’s feet as she ate, occasionally tilting his head toward the small drops of food Noa hand-fed him.
“Yuh waan anyting else, love?”
Ooh girl, ooh girl, is it feasible? I wanna know now, for I to knock some more Ya see, in life I know there's lots of grief But your love is my relief
Noa shook her head. “I’m good.”
Tears in my eyes burn, tears in my eyes burn While I'm waiting, while I'm waiting for my turn
“Yuh sure?”
She nodded, reaching for her wallet.
“Alright den.”
The check slid onto the table.
I don't wanna wait in vain for your love I don't wanna wait in vain for your love I don't wanna wait in vain for your love I don't wanna wait in vain for your love Noa stood before it could start again.
Untied Basil’s leash.
Catholic Country by Kings of Convenience
Noa’s Arrival, Istanbul Airport (IST)
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. We are beginning our descent into Istanbul. The weather is hot and sunny with a high around 84 degrees Fahrenheit and 29 degrees Celsius.”
The plane jolted once, hard enough to snap her awake.
"Flight attendants, prepare for landing."
"We expect to be on the ground in about 20 minutes. Please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened."
The engines roared, then eased. The plane dipped again, tires screeching briefly before settling into a long, vibrating roll. Overhead bins rattled.
THUMP.
A ripple of gasps rolled through the cabin, followed by applause from somewhere behind her.
“Finally,” a man muttered to his wife.
"Welcome to Istanbul. The local time is 9 AM. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the captain turns off the seatbelt sign."
Noa sat up slowly, removing her eye mask from her face, and glanced out the window. She was in a middle seat, knees tight against the fully reclined seat in front of her, neck stiff from craning to the left.
The woman by the window pressed her forehead to the glass.
“That’s it,” she said softly. “That’s Istanbul.”
The cabin lights fully snapped on, seatbelts immediately clicking open, despite the sign still glowing red.
“Relax,” someone said sharply in accented English. “We are not there yet.”
Noa stayed seated, shoulders slumped, watching as people stood anyway, stretching arms overhead, opening bins that wouldn’t move.
She rolled her eyes. “People standing up and the doors haven’t even opened,” she muttered to herself, bending to gather her things.
“Excuse me,” a man said from across the aisle, reaching past her.
The doors finally opened with a soft hiss and warm air crept in.
“Hoş geldiniz,” a crew member said near the door. (Welcome.)
The jet bridge hummed under their feet as the line inched forward. Someone ahead was FaceTiming, holding the phone high.
“We landed, Baba,” he said loudly. “No, I don’t know how long. It’s very big.”
Noa followed the slow shuffle into the terminal.
Fluorescent lights rattled from the high ceiling, reflecting endless glass. Voices overlapped in a dozen languages as footsteps moved toward customs and baggage claim.
Overhead signs stretched in clean white letters:
PASAPORT KONTROLÜ (Passport Control) BAGAJ ALIMI (Baggage Claim) ÇIKIŞ (Exit)
Noa slowed, rolling her suitcase behind her, scanning faces as she moved toward the line.
A woman ahead of her crouched to tie a little boy’s shoe, stuffing his teddy bear back into his backpack.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” she said, tiredly.
“I won’t,” he promised immediately, already tugging away.
To Noa’s right, a man in a dark blazer paced half the length of the line, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes, I’ve landed,” he said. “No, I don’t know how long.”He checked the line, jaw tightening. “Yes. Yes. I’ll call you back.”
Behind her, three teenagers bumped into each other, laughing too loud, one of them dragging a silver carry-on with a matching sticker peeling at the corner.
“Bro, you almost took out that lady,” one said.
“She stopped,” another shot back, still laughing.
“Because you’re an idiot.”
The suitcase clipped Noa’s heel.
“Sorry, sorry,” the girl said quickly, grinning.
A man further up shouted over his shoulder, “Is this for all passports?”
“Yes,” someone answered without turning. “All.”
Noa shifted her weight, rolled her suitcase forward an inch, and waited. The immigration line curved and curved again.
“Is this all one line?” a woman asked, tapping her foot.
“Yes!” Someone yelled out from the back in frustration.
A collective groan rippled through the crowd.
Noa leaned back against the barrier, eyes closing briefly, floor vibrating under her feet as another plane landed somewhere nearby.
BUZZ.
She glanced down at her phone in hand.
Vaughn: UEFA sent one car.
Noa: Cool.
Five minutes later, the line had barely moved.
A man behind her sighed dramatically. “Three hours,” he said to no one. “Last time, three hours.”
A child started crying somewhere to the left.
“Shh. We are almost there,” a voice whispered, feet shuffling in and out of the line.
“Je t’ai dit de garder les passeports ensemble.” (I told you to keep the passports together.)
“Ils sont là,” he whispered back, digging through his bag. “Je les ai. Calme-toi.” (They’re there. I have them. Calm down.)
The woman exhaled sharply.
“On va rater la correspondance.” (We’re going to miss the connection.)
The man finally found them and held them up as proof.
“Regarde. Tout va bien.” (Look. Everything’s fine.)
The woman didn’t answer, folded her arms tighter and stared ahead as the line crept forward.
At the counters, officers worked steadily, stamping, waving people through. The thump-click sound of the stamp echoed over and over.
“Passport, please.”
When it was Noa’s turn, the officer took her passport without looking up.
“Name?”
“Noa Jameson.”
The officer looked at the passport and then at Noa, brows furrowed.
“Noelle Jameson,” she corrected, shifting her weight.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Work.”
“How long?”
“A few days.”
He flipped through the pages, paused, then glanced up at her face.
She stared at him and held his gaze.
He stamped the passport with a loud THUD, sliding it across the counter.
“Welcome,” he said. “Next!” Already reaching for the next passport.
“Blue strap,” a man kept repeating. “Blue strap.”
Baggage claim had people crowded close, necks craning as they awaited rubber conveyor belts on the carousels to clank to life.
Noa tugged her suitcase free on the first pass and headed toward the exit.
Just beyond the sliding doors, the noise swelled and the heat rose. People stood shoulder to shoulder behind railings, holding cardboard signs scrawled with names.
“Ahmet!” “Sarah!” “Taxi, taxi!”
BUZZ.
Vaughn: Look up.
There was Vaughn, leaning against a black sedan, eyes flickering toward her, phone pressed to his ear.
“Nee, nee,” he said, shifting his weight. (No, no.)
“Bel mama en vraag het haar.” (Call mom and ask her.)
She exhaled slowly, then followed the flow toward the curb, suitcase wheels rattling over the grooves in the pavement.
“Ik ga naar Istanbul voor de wedstrijd,” he continued, leaning forward. (I’m going to Istanbul for the match.)
“Zij gaat.” (She’s going.)
He shifted the phone to his other ear, slipping his jacket off.
Noa noticed the way his manbun dampened from the heat, his black T-shirt clung to his body, and his tattoo sleeve glistened under the rising sun.
“Hey,” she whispered, stopping in front of him.
“Ze zei Suriname (She said Suriname),” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb.
He nodded, straightened, and opened the door.
“Jordan gaat ook.” (Jordan is going too.)
“Ga jij ook?” (Are you going too?)
He glanced sideways, past her, toward the bus screeching to a halt, silently gesturing his arm to her suitcase. His fingers brushed hers for a second when he pulled it from her grip, rounding the corner to hoist it into the trunk.
“Jen, ik weet het niet.” (Jen, I don’t know.)
“What are you doing?,” Vaughn called out, pulling the phone from his ear, as Noa reached for the door.
“Not you Jen,” he said.
“I’m driving.”
“You’re—”
“Driving.”
He put the phone back to his ear and moved toward the driver’s side door.
“Misschien kan ik wel gaan.” (Maybe I can go.)
Noa shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, and opened the passenger side door.
Vaughn opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.
Noa sank into the cool, black leather seat, dropping her bag to the floor as she closed her door. She sat quietly, eyes focused on the traffic outside the window, ears tuned to Vaughn’s conversation.
“Nou, natuurlijk laat ik het je weten.” (Well, of course I’ll let you know.)
His elbow dropped to the armrest.
“Ik hou van je.” (I love you.)
“Tot snel.” (Talk soon.)
Vaughn slipped the phone into his pocket as the engine roared to life.
The car eased into the traffic stream, tires humming against the asphalt. Ahead, the road split around a long stone median planted with palms.
Vaughn merged left. To the right, a low wall dropped away and the city opened into tight blocks of concrete apartments stacked unevenly, balconies crowded with satellite dishes and laundry lines. A sign flashed past in white letters:
HOŞ GELDİNİZ Welcome.
The road dipped, then rose. A domed mosque came into view, pale stone glowing under floodlights, minarets cutting thin lines into the dark.
The speakers crackled.
“Allāhu akbar.”
The call stretched out over the traffic, threading between horns and engines. Noa stayed still, listening. Vaughn turned his head slightly toward the window.
The road curved sharply.
Water appeared all at once.
The Bosphorus spread wide and black below them, ferries sliding across it with strings of lights breaking and reforming in the wake. The bridge rose ahead, cables lit white, traffic compressing as the car merged.
Vaughn checked his watch. “Twenty minutes.”
After that, no one said anything else.
Winning A Battle, Losing the War by Kings of Convenience
Theo & The Aldridge-Wells, Swiss Diamond Hotel, Prishtina
“So are we going to talk about it or—”
Theo averted Tara’s gaze. He silently moved around the room, brows furrowed, opening and closing drawers, folding shirts he hadn’t worn back into the suitcase — balled up socks, sweats rolled sweats tossed in, toiletries slotted into a leather bag stamped with the club crest. The balcony doors were cracked open; traffic noise floated up from Mother Teresa Boulevard below.
“I saw you,” Tara started, eyes tracking his movement, “at the —”
Theo abruptly paused by the edge of the bed and shot her a look.
He bent to grab his carry-on and dropped it onto the mattress with a loud THUMP, the headboard knocked softly against the wall.
“I still don’t get —”
Theo yanked the zipper around.
“I mean, like is she not —”
He snatched a knot of tangled cords from the nightstand, and shoved them into the outer pocket without sorting them.
The door creaked open.
“Mum just got off the phone with the doctor,” Theresa said, stepping in with two coffees balanced in her hands. “They tried to reach you—”
She stopped midway, eyes flicking to Tara’s thin-lipped scowl, then to Theo’s rigid back whirling around the room.
“They cleared you for travel.”
Theo kept packing.
“And playing.”
Theo’s hand froze on the zipper.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Tara stared at him.
“He speaks!,” she sarcastically cried out, throwing her hands in the air, plopping onto the couch.
Theresa narrowed her gaze, extended the coffee to Tara, and took a seat at the edge of the bed.
“Didn’t ask me if I wanted one,” Theo muttered.
Theresa shrugged and stayed quiet, hazel gaze studying him.
“So then explain this part to me,” Tara called from behind. “The part where you limp up five flights like—”
“Tara,” Theresa cut in.
Tara scoffed. “Oh, now he cares who hears?”
Tara shook her head, frustrated. “You always do this, decide something and expect everyone else to keep up.”
“I’m not asking anyone to keep up,” Theo shot back.
Theresa sat her coffee down and stood up.
“Alright. Alright,” she sighed. “What is going on?”
Tara angled her limbs into an upright position, while Theo scooted the suitcase over and sat on the bed, weight dipping beneath him.
“Well, where shall we begin,” Tara pressed her hands onto her thighs, “Theo broke up with Noa,” she shot a glance over to him, “Dragged us all the way to Prishtina without telling any —,” she scowled at him, “of us,” she paused, “ — and had sex with her — and didn’t talk — and cried at her speech, but still left. And now she’s gone.”
“She not — she’s what?”
“Gone. I saw her skeddaling out of here, suitcase in hand, as we pulled up.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“How was I supposed to know,” Tara said, throwing her hands up, “It’s not like you tell us anything.”
“I tell you lot too much.”
“And clearly not enough,” Tara said, kissing her teeth.”
Theresa stood quietly, eyes volleying between the two of them.
From the hallway, the soft whirr of a vacuum floated in before a door closed somewhere down the corridor.
Theo crossed to the balcony and slid it shut, muting the sounds of laughter rippling up from Mother Teresa Boulevard.
BUZZ.
Theresa glanced down, but didn’t pick it up.
“Okay, so start from the beginning. What happened?”
Theo stayed where he was, one hand braced against the back of the chair, gaze fixed on nothing.
He sighed. “Noa and I were not —,” he shot a glare at Tara, “are not —,” he looked forlorn at Theresa, “together.”
“But you climbed five flights of stairs with crutches to —”
Theresa waved a hand at her. “Tara. Enough.”
“Okayyyyy,” Tara muttered, grabbing her coffee and scooting back on the couch.
Theo exhaled, slowly.
“It was the only thing I could give her,” he muttered, bending down to grab a pair of shoes. He crossed the room, “and it was the only thing she would ask from me.” He dropped the shoes into the suitcase, put his hands on the sides, closed his eyes and exhaled.
Tara’s eyes went wide, catching Theresa’s. “Yikes. It is worse than I thought,” she mouthed, hand stilled on the coffee lid.
“Shh,” Theresa put a finger to her lips.
Tara looked away, to the balcony.
Theresa nodded. “Theo,” she turned to him.
“Do you think this time,” she spoke quieter this time, then paused.
She studied the way his hands gripped and flexed on the suitcase as he slowly inhaled and exhaled, “you, too, can do the work.."
She watched the way his shoulders slumped, “to get to where you,” she stopped and waited for him to meet her gaze, “both really want to be?”
Theo didn’t answer quickly. He slid from the suitcase and quietly sat on the bed, rubbing his palms against his face a few times.
“Yes,” he said. “But not right now.”
“Ayo.”
The door swung open. Big Mike filled the doorway, jacket half-on, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, sunglasses on despite the fact they were still very much inside.
“Nah, nah, nah — I’m tellin’ you right now,” he said into the phone, waving a folded ticket in the air, “you can’t just ‘figure it out later.’ This is a final. A FINAL.”
His eyes flickered around the room — the suitcase, the coffee, Theresa’s clenched jaw, Theo on the bed.
“Oh,” Big Mike said, lowering the phone.
KNOCK.
“Let me ring you back, yeah,” he said, sliding open the adjoining suite door.
Delroy stepped in, suitcases in hand. “Di car downstairs.”
Juliet came in behind him, “Is everyone going to stand around or are we planning to make our flights?”
She crossed the room to Theo, leaning to kiss his temple.
Theo looked up at her, “Mum. It’s—”
“Di bwoy haffi job,” Delroy said, kissing his teeth, shifting the weight of the bags as he moved to the door.
“Delroy,” she said, throwing her hands up as she moved toward him, “He is—”
“My son,” everyone called out in unison, laughing.
Juliet laughed, wringing her hands, already halfway to the doorway now. She paused to glance back at Theo before straightening and grabbing the door handle.
Tara hopped up from the couch, coffee in hand. “Theo, I’m still mad,” she muttered. “That doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”
“I know,” he said.
“Good. Because I must shower, and I don’t have time to be your moral compass,” she shot back, already toward the door, “I love you.” Tara slipped out behind their parents, the door closing softly behind her.
Theo stood and finally zipped the suitcase closed.
Theresa crossed toward him and nudged his shoulder. “If love were easy, it wouldn’t be worth it,” she smiled.
Theo looked over at her.
“Growth isn’t linear,” she said gently. “And trees—” she paused, eyes studying his, before nodding. “Take years to root,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.
Theo smirked. “You always know the right things to say?”
“No — but I do read,” she laughed.
“Right,” he laughed.
Theo lifted his suitcase to the floor and his bag onto his shoulder and stepped toward the door.
I’d Rather Dance With You by Kings of Convenience
Theo’s Arrival, Istanbul Airport (IST)
The plane jolted once, hard enough to shake the plastic water bottles neatly lined on the cart.
“Jesus,” someone muttered, lifting a hand to close the overhead bin that clicked open.
The aircraft dipped one last time below the thick clouds and into the pale blue sky, engines roaring and easing. The plane rolled to a stop, its tires shrieked once before settling into a low, steady rumble that vibrated up through the seats.
“Finally,” someone said. “About time.” “Thought we were circling again.”
Theo stayed still, noise-canceling headphones half on, eyes open but unfocused as the engines powered off.
“Bro,” Puli murmured from across the aisle, peeling one side of his headphones back, squinting as the jet bridge opened, “tell me it’s not already hot.”
“It’s warmer than Milan already,” Koni called out.
“Yeah,” Fik said behind him. “That’s called summer.”
Theo snorted.
A voice crackled over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Istanbul. Local time is just after nine in the morning. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the seatbelt sign has been turned off.”
Seatbelts clicked open anyway.
Fik leaned forward, forearms braced on the seatback ahead of him. “Puli. You brought sleeves, didn’t you?”
Puli grimaced. “Not all sleeves.”
Theo reached down, adjusted the strap of his bag as the cabin lights snapped on.
A few rows up, someone stood, immediately blocked by a bin that wouldn’t open.
“Relax,” a voice snapped. “We’re not there yet.”
Ahead of him, Malik leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, “Five minutes,” he said without opening his eyes.
Across the aisle, Koni craned his neck toward the window, forehead nearly pressed to the glass. “You see that?” he whispered. “That’s water already.”
Everyone ignored him.
A crew member’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Gentlemen, welcome to Istanbul. Please remain seated.”
Fik stood first anyway, stretching his shoulders, scanning the aisle, eyes flicked once toward Theo, then away again.
Theo nodded.
The doors opened with a soft hiss. Sunlight flooded the front of the cabin as dry, sharp heat rolled in.
“Hoş geldiniz,” a flight attendant said near the front. (Welcome.)
The jet bridge door groaned as it locked into place, passengers half-rose, stretching into the aisle. Others stood, dragging their bags down.
“Fuck,” someone cursed under their breath as a strap caught on an armrest.
“Careful,” Malik said, standing, mid-stretch.
“We landed,” the team physio said loudly, already on a video call. “Yeah. No, I don’t know how long.”
The rest of the team moved together, row by row, the aisle filling fast. Fik waited for Koni to pull his bag from the last open overhead bin.
Puli bumped Theo’s elbow, “Sorry,” he muttered, shifting forward.
The line stalled, then lurched.
“Watch it,” someone said, shoes scuffing the carpet.
Theo followed, thumbing messages on his phone before sliding the screen close.
They stepped onto the jet bridge, the ceiling dropping low enough to amplify every footstep, rolling wheel, and breath, concrete walls radiating heat as condensation dripped down.
“Jesus,” Koni muttered again.
Ahead, the line slowed.
A blonde laughed loudly ahead.
“Hoş geldiniz (Welcome),” a flight attendant said at the door, ushering them into the terminal.
Security voices overlapped in a dozen languages as footsteps funneled toward customs and baggage claim.
Overhead signs stretched in clean white letters:
PASAPORT KONTROLÜ (Passport Control) BAGAJ ALIMI (Baggage Claim) ÇIKIŞ (Exit)
Theo adjusted the strap of his bag as Malik slowed the line, everyone bunching up again as security officer stepped forward.
“Sol,” he said, pointing. (Left.)
Another officer echoed it farther down the corridor.
“Buradan.” (This way.)
“Passport, please.”
Malik went first. Then Fik. Then Koni.
Theo stepped forward.
The officer took his passport without looking up.
“Name?”
“Theo Aldridge-Wells.”
She glanced down at the page, then up at him, sliding the passport under the glass toward him.
“Theo,” she said, voice rising an octave. “Here,” she took her red nailed index finger and dragged it across his name, before glancing back up at him, “it says,” she smiled, waiting for him to look at her, “Theodore,” she paused, and smirked. “Theodore Aldridge-Wells.”
Her eyes stayed on him a second longer than necessary.
He nodded. “Theodore. It’s Theodore,” shifting his weight, and his gaze into the distance.
The woman’s face dropped before she straightened and cleared her throat, color draining from her face in embarrassment.
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“Purpose of visit?”
“Work.”
“Footballer?”
“Huh?”
She stared at him until he looked back at her and smiled. “Are you a footballer?”
“Yes.”
She flipped through the passport slowly this time, thumb tracing the edges of the stamps.
“Busy week,” she smiled to herself.
Theo ignored her.
Behind him, Puli sighed, rolling his eyes. Malik looked past the counter, scanning ahead.
The officer finally stamped the page — THUD — and slid the passport back.
“Welcome,” she said, softer than the others had, fingers lingering on the passport a second too long.
Theo took the passport, nodded, and started walking.
“Next.”
“Man’s still got it, innit,” Fik grinned, nudging Theo.
Malik snorted from behind, scrolling his phone.
Puli laughed, leaned in just enough to murmur, “Man, she was pretty,” before following them.
Theo adjusted the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder and ignored them.
Outside, the vans were already idling, blacked-out windows gleaming under the sun. A police escort waited at the curb.
“Bu taraftan.” (This way.)
“Valizleri buraya.” (Bags here.)
Malik tossed his bag into the back of the nearest van and quietly slid inside.
“Two days,” he said, stretching his neck side to side. “Then we can sleep.”
“Çabuk, çabuk (Quick, quick.),” a voice called out, ushering them forward.
“You always say that,” Koni said, climbing in.
“And you always believe him,” Puli grinned, climbing in, “ “Finals, man.”
Fik stepped in behind him, “Let’s do this,” he muttered.
Theo slid in last and took the window seat, resting his head back for half a second as the door shut, and the van lurched forward. Red flags flicked past the glass in quick succession, fabric snapping in the breeze.
Noa’s Drive, Çırağan Palace Kempinski, Bosphorus
The traffic thinned as they left the bridge, lanes narrowing as the city loosened and buildings dropped in height.
Vaughn followed the curve of the Bosphorus north, the water now running parallel to the road. It was dark, close, almost level with the windows. Ferries slid past at a distance, their waves flattening quickly against the shore.
“Suriname, eh?” Noa asked, eyes still on the road ahead.
Stone walls ran alongside the road replacing storefronts, iron gates sat deep between cypress trees, glimpses of water flashing silver between breaks in long, pale stretches of brickwork.
“I was born in Breda, in the Netherlands, but I am half-Surinamese. Mom’s side,” he replied, eyes forward, hands on the steering wheel.
Noa glanced over at him.
“Natuurlijk weet ik dat. Iedereen ter wereld weet dat,” Noa shot back. “(Of course I know that. Everyone in the world knows that).”
Vaughn took his eyes off the road for a brief second, caught her gaze, and smiled.
“Stel me de vraag die je me echt wilt stellen, NJ.” (Ask me the question you really want to ask me, NJ.)
Silence settled between them as the road narrowed further, uniformed guards appearing at intervals along the wall, standing still in the heat.
He glanced back to the road, then back to her.
“Over mijn familie (About my family),” he said quietly.
Noa swallowed and kept her eyes focused outside the window.
“Over hoe we een hele zomer lang hebben samengewerkt." he added. “(About how we've worked together for an entire summer).”
A palace revealed itself in fragments on her right, first the wall, then the gates, then glimpses of ornate stonework set back from the road.
“En we hebben nooit over onze families gesproken." Vaughn continued. “(And never talked about our families).”
The car turned off the main road, shade closing in. Asphalt gave way to gravel, the sound softening immediately. The Bosphorus slipped back into view through the trees, closer now, darker, the surface barely moving.
“Ik ben de oudste. Ik heb een broer die twee jaar jonger is en een zus die tien jaar jonger is.” “(I'm the eldest. I have a brother two years younger. A sister ten years younger).”
Noa stayed quiet and fully turned toward the window.
The arched stone entrance came into view, Vaughn slowing to a complete stop. Two guards stepped forward at once, radios clipped high on their shoulders.
“Hoş geldiniz.” (Welcome.)
One glanced into the car. “Belgeler, lütfen.” (Credentials, please.)
Vaughn nodded at them.
“I’m the eldest too.”
Vaughn’s lips curved up into a smile, but he stayed silent.
Noa opened her door, slid out, heat rising beneath her sandals as a porter reached for her suitcase.
“Thank you,” she said, already walking.
Behind her, Vaughn stayed seated as the guards shifted their attention back to the vehicle, one speaking quietly into his radio.
Noa walked forward alone.
Noa’s Arrival, Çırağan Palace Kempinski, 5th Fl, Left Wing
The doors closed behind her cutting off the sunlight and the immense heat.
Inside, the lobby stretched, ceilings with dark timber beams, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Bosphorus. Pale marble ran interrupted by thick, hand-knotted, deep red rectangular rugs with dulled gold Ottoman patterns.
“Lütfen, bu taraftan.” (Please, this way.)
“Straight through,” a staff member murmured to someone behind her. “Please stay within the ropes.”
To the left, velvet ropes formed barriers and cut the space in half. Two reporters stood waiting, cameras resting against their hips, facing the side corridor. A woman in a black blazer murmured into her headset, eyes flicking toward the entrance.
“Hayır,” she said softly. “Bugün değil.” (No. Not today.)
The reporters nodded, and turned away.
Along the right wall, smooth stone columns lined the walls, their bases wrapped in gold bands. When someone shifted their suitcase behind her, the wheels made a brief, soft rasp, then vanished into the rugs.
From the windows, water light rippled across the stone walls. A ferry horn sounded outside, then faded as Noa headed to the front desk.
A man in a dark suit straightened immediately.
“Günaydın.” (Good morning.)
“Jameson,” Noa replied, setting her passport down, placing her credentials on top.
The man lifted the first badge. “UEFA. Match-day clearance.”
The second. “UNFCCC.”
He tipped the third badge closer, thumb brushing the corner where a small red flag marked the edge.
“NatGeo,” he said under his breath, “Tabii ki, Jameson Hanım (Of course.).”
“Bir saniye.”(One moment.)
He leaned toward the second desk, voice barely audible.
“Üçlü erişim.” (Triple access.)
He nodded to another receptionist who reached under the counter.
Behind them, from the waterfront side of the lobby, a door opened quietly. It was a narrow arrival corridor, used for boats and black cars.
“Water entrance,” a voice said. “They’re inside.”
Vaughn stepped into the open space between columns, phone still at his ear.
“Okay. Two minutes.”
He ended the call, shoulder resting back against a stone pillar, eyes on Noa.
The printer behind the desk began to hum, key cards sputtering out in succession.
“Ms. Jameson,” the receptionist said, lowering his voice, lips thinned into a blank expression.
“Erişiminiz güncellendi.” (Your access has been updated.)
He pushed the stack across.
“Beşinci kat. Batı kanadı.” (Fifth floor. West wing.)
His gaze gestured toward a recessed elevator bank with tinted glass set into the wall near the windows.Two security staff stood there, hands folded in front of them.
“Aynı asansör. Delegasyonunuzla.” (Same elevator as your delegation.)
“Karşı oda,” he said, nodding toward Vaughn. (Across the hall.)
Vaughn’s eyebrows lifted as Noa gathered the cards.
“Thank you,” she nodded, stepping away from the desk.
Vaughn pushed off the column and fell into step beside her as they moved toward the security bank.
“You didn’t tell me you were triple-flagged,” he said, glancing down at the lanyards.
“Yeah.”
“This way,” a staff member said, leading them toward the secured elevators.
DING.
The guard by the elevator shifted as the doors opened. As the doors slid shut, Noa caught Vaughn’s reflection in the mirror. She watched the way his eyes flicked once to the badges clipped at her waist before lifting again.
Theo’s Drive, Çırağan Palace Kempinski, Rossoneri Milano FC Block
“Jesus,” Koni muttered.
He peeled his shirt away from his skin, leaned forward and twisted the vent open as a blast of cool air hit his face.
“Yes,” he exhaled, head lolling back onto the headrest.
“You complaining already?” Puli said from the row ahead. “We just landed.”
“It’s hotter than Milan,” Koni shot back, spreading his knees apart. “This is sticky heat.”
Theo stayed quiet, eyes forward, watching the airport fall away in pieces as the road widened into multiple lanes.
Outside the windshield, a yellow airport bus cut across the lanes as a man leaned out his window and yelled at the driver. “Abi! Abi!” (Brother! Brother!)
A green overhead sign flashed past the windshield: ŞEHİR MERKEZİ KAĞITHANE / BEŞİKTAŞ
“Devam, devam,” the officer waved them through. (Go, go.)
The van suddenly dipped. Concrete gave way to a lower road that ran parallel to the airport runways as the police escort eased ahead of them while a second van followed close behind.
“Whoa,” Fik said, bracing a hand on the seat when the driver suddenly hit the break.
The van rolled forward in short bursts, braking, easing, braking again behind a line of buses sat nose-to-nose under the concrete overhang.
“Kapıyı kapat!” someone shouted. (Close the door!)“Bekle!” another voice snapped back. (Wait!)
“Çek! Çek kenara!” (Pull over! Move aside!)
HONNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKK.
A horn blared for at least ten seconds.
“Are we still in the airport?” Koni asked, face pressed to the glass.
“Yes,” Theo said flatly. “This is still the airport road.”
To their right, Theo watched ground crew in neon vests waving glow sticks, shouting and directing traffic.
“Tamam, tamam!” (Okay, okay!)
Another bus idled across the service road, driver smoking, elbow half out the window.
“Abi, burası dolu!” someone called to him. (Brother, it’s full here!)
He shrugged without moving. “Welcome to Turkey.”
The van finally eased into traffic and picked up speed. A mosque slipped past on the right, glowing under the sun, its minaret cutting a clean line into the sky.
“Ortaköy (Middle village),” the driver nodded.
The call to prayer echoed: “Allāhu akbar.”
“Boğaz,” the driver added, titling his head. (The Bosphorus.)
Red flags hung from every light pole now, fabric snapping in the wind as they passed.
“Twenty-five minutes,” Puli announced, checking his phone. “Maybe less.”
The road narrowed, stone on one side, water on the other. The Bosphorus spread wide and dark below them, ferries slid across it as waves broke and flattened against the shore.
“Wow,” Koni whispered to himself.
When they crossed the bridge, Theo watched as the buildings thinned. Storefronts gave way to walls and the water was close enough to feel level with the windows.
“Where are we?” Fik asked.
“Almost there,” Malik said.
The vans curved off the road. Their tires crunched softly over gravel, as they slowed near a shaded driveway, near a hotel staff member who opened the door as soon as the engine cut off.
“Gentlemen.”
Fik stepped out first. “Okay,” he whistled. “I’m not mad at this.”
A breeze came off the water, tugging briefly at Malik’s shirt when he stepped out of the van.
“Ten minutes,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Stretch. Shower. Downstairs.”
“Downstairs where?” Koni asked.
Malik looked at him.
“Food.”
“Say less.” Fik grinned.
Theo stayed seated a little longer than necessary, watching the group head inside, before he finally stepped out.
Theo’s Arrival, Çırağan Palace Kempinski, 5th Fl, Right Wing
The Bosphorus flashed between the columns as the salt dragging with it an into the narrow private arrival corridor, parallel to the water where two guards stood.
“Grup burada.” (The group is here.)
The guards immediately stepped aside. Inside, the temperature dropped, cold air latching to their sweaty skin, sound compressing the moment they crossed into the space. Their footsteps disappeared into thick rectangular Ottoman style rugs laid end to end along the stone floor.
This side of the palace opened into marble columns, and tall windows in pale fabric that filtered the light off the Bosphorus.
“Sağdan lütfen.” (Right side, please.)
A staff member guided them past arches into the operations lobby, where a desk sat offset from the main space.
Behind it stood a blonde woman in a tailored navy blazer, hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her blue eyes that lifted the second Theo came into view.
She smiled before she meant to, ran her fingers across her hair, and quickly adjusted her nametag — Zeynep.
“Günaydın.” (Good morning.)
The printer spat out key cards one by one.
She glanced down at the screen, then back up, eyes narrowed in on Theo.
“Aldridge-Wells?” She grinned. “Uzun bir yol.” (Long trip.)
“Yes.” Theo gave a polite nod and nothing else.
Fik and Malik locked eyes, biting back laughs.
The woman laughed under her breath and returned to the screen.
“Beşinci kat. Sağ kanat.” (Fifth floor. Right wing.)
She lifted the cards from the printer and stepped around the desk, handing out key cards.
“You’ll have the quiet side,” she said, hand brushing his and lingering more than necessary, eyes still on him. “Better for… focus.”
Theo took the card, nodded, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder, already heading toward the elevators.
“This guy,” Koni laughed, nudging Puli.
Fik half-laughed and Malik grinned as they followed behind.
“You good?” Fik murmured, catching up to Theo.
“Yeah.”
“You know she’s here,” Fik added quietly. “Kez told me.”
“I know.”
Fik nodded, and kept quiet toward the elevator.
DING.
The elevator doors slid open and everyone crowded inside as Malik watched Theo’s vacant expression in the gold reflected space.
“Ahem.” Malik cleared his throat and checked his watch. “Media in two hours. Get ready quickly.”
Koni groaned. “I just want to take a nap.”
DING.
The doors opened into a long, wide, corridor with pale walls and heavy doors set deep into stone. Tall windows on one side flashed slices of water between columns as ferries passed outside.
Theo stopped at his door.
“Chill later?” Fik asked, lingering a minute longer.
“Yeah.”
Fik nodded, patted Theo’s shoulder, and headed down the hall.
Theo stepped inside and closed his door. He set his bag down, toed off his shoes, grabbed his kit bag and headed straight for the shower.
NEXT EPISODE
