“Yes, sir!”
Aiden responded immediately. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried crisp determination.
The reaction made Grant Mason glance at him again. Something about the kid felt… different. Less of that greasy, spoiled aura, and more of a calmness he couldn’t quite place.
“Hm.” Grant didn’t pursue it. He pushed the meal container closer. “Eat. Can you manage?”
“I can.”
Aiden reached for the bowl. His arm still trembled with weakness, the muscles soft and unreliable—his hand quivered despite his effort to steady it. He forced the bowl upright, preventing the porridge from spilling.
To Grant, the trembling looked like natural post-illness frailty paired with an earnest attempt to recover.
Grant stood silently, arms crossed, watching the young man take slow, deliberate, almost revere
