Isabella's hand stilled mid-motion, the wooden spoon hovering over the pot. For a beat, her mind wasn't in the room anymore.
Was Ophelia… avoiding her? The thought slipped in uninvited, sour and a little sharp. Or maybe—just maybe—she was too busy wrapped up in her shiny new man, all wrapped in that dizzying honeymoon haze.
Either way, it was fine. Totally fine. She didn't care. Not really. At least, that's what she told herself as she gave the spoon a small, dismissive stir, the faintest twitch tugging at the corner of her mouth like she might actually believe it if she kept moving.
Across from her, Cyrus hadn't moved. His gaze stayed fixed on her face, steady and quiet in a way that somehow felt heavier than words. He was reading her—the way her shoulders had gone just a little too straight, the tiny hitch in her breath, the faint tension in her fingers curling around the spoon's handle.
