Bella pov
We ate together at the kitchen island—not the formal dining room, which somehow made it feel more real. Caleb asked me about my day, actually listened to my answers. I learned he hated mushrooms, loved his grandmother fiercely, and had a dry wit that caught me off guard and made me laugh.
For one night, the ice around him thawed. For one night, I let myself believe Caleb's grandmother had been right. The wine led to more conversation. Conversation led to him moving closer on the couch where we'd ended up, reviewing old photo albums his grandmother had left—pictures of a younger Caleb, before the world had frozen him solid.
"She talks about you constantly," I said softly, studying a photo of eight-year-old Caleb grinning beside a bicycle. "She loves you so much."
"She's the o
