Isabelle’s POV
The sound of my keyboard clicking filled the room, broken only by the soft rustle of Jaime’s fork as he speared another piece of melon from the container beside him.
He sat curled up in one of the cushioned chairs across from my desk, a blanket tucked around his legs, a tall bottle of water beside him and a small plate of sliced fruit balanced carefully on his lap.
Every so often, I’d glance over.
“You doing okay?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
He looked up from his fruit with a sleepy smile and a firm nod. “Mhm.”
His cheeks were flushed with color — not fevered, not pale like this morning. Just… healthy. Alive.
It made my heart ache a little.
I let my eyes linger on him. He was still too thin, his wrists delicate, shoulders narrow. But his color was back. And his
