LEVI’S POV
“We can’t possibly go to the bedroom,” I said with a smile, glancing towards the hallway. “The water would soon boil,” I added, trying to diffuse the moment with a touch of humor.
The kettle gurgled loudly, filling the kitchen with its energetic protest against the silence that had settled between us.
Isabella seemed a bit flustered, her earlier suggestion hanging awkwardly in the air. “I like making coffee the traditional way, like my mother. There’s nothing quite like it, especially if I want to impress,” she said, attempting to restart the conversation. “What about you? Do you enjoy making coffee? How does your mom make hers?”
The mention of my mom tugged at my heart, and a pang of sadness quickly stifled. “I never met my mother,” I replied evenly, masking the ache. “My
