Ethan catches a cold the next day.
It's mild, barely worth mentioning, but it irritates him anyway. He has always taken pride in his body. Discipline, routine, control. He eats on schedule, trains regularly, has a nutritionist monitoring everything. He doesn't get sick. At least, he isn't supposed to.
At breakfast, the table is set with the usual carefully planned dishes prepared by the nutritionist. But there's something new among them—one plate that doesn't quite fit the pattern. Ethan made it himself early that morning, following a recipe he'd memorized the night before.
He doesn't say anything about it.
He sits across from Claire, posture composed, expression neutral. When she reaches for the dish with her chopsticks, tastes it, and gives a small nod—as if genuinely approving—somet
