Isabelle stared at the tray, letting her eyes move slowly across the arrangement. The layout was clean, precise—unfolding like a quietly composed overture.
Steamed white rice topped with a soft-seasoned egg ribbon. Grilled tofu with crisp edges, glazed in a light citrus-soy reduction. A side of julienned vegetables—zucchini, carrot, daikon—braised until tender but not mush. And the broth, golden and clear, laced with nothing sharp or cloying. Just warm. Inviting.
Then the fruit.
Nothing showy. No sugar-soaked melon or perfumed lychee. Just apple slices. Orange segments. A small dusting of powdered plum over the edge of the bowl, like the finish to a memory.
Her throat tightened.
'These are… all my favorites.'
The smell. The color. The restraint.
She'd never told anyone.
She hadn't needed to.
And yet—
Her gaze shifted sideways, slowly.
To Damien.
He wasn't eating yet.
He was watching.
