ISABELLA’S POV

Elijah placed the last plate on the counter, and for a moment, the quiet between us wasn’t heavy—it was warm. Soft. Like the calm after the first sip of morning coffee. I wiped my hands with a kitchen towel, trying to steady the strange fluttering in my chest.

“You didn’t have to help,” I told him as I placed the pot back on the stove.

He leaned against the counter, arms casually folded across his chest. “I know. But I wanted to. Besides…” His eyes softened ...