"You shouldn't let her words get to you." Tristan's voice was low, steady, but there was a tension in it, like a note held too tightly.
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on me, the kind of gaze that pinned me in place.
"Whatever my mother thinks she sees," he added, his jaw tightening, "it's not what it looks like."
I swallowed hard, my hands tightening around the delicate teacup in front of me.
It's not what it looks like.
The words echoed in my head, sharp and cool, unravelling the warmth Marie had wrapped me in only moments ago.
"Of course," I managed, forcing a small smile. "I didn't think anything out of it."
A lie.
My voice betrayed me with the faintest tremor.
Tristan's gaze lingered on my face, searching for my honesty, as if he could tell I wasn't being entirely honest.
Then he leaned back, his expression shuttered, that familiar wall of composure falling neatly into place.
I lowered my eyes on the tea and stared at my reflection in the pale liquid. My chest ached with something I couldn't quite name.
Remembering how his mother, Marie, had spoken with such ease as though she saw something natural in the way Tristan and I had been orbiting one another makes me thinking of all this happening.
But then here he is dismissing it as though it were nothing more than a misunderstanding.
Why did that sting so much?
"It's okay, I understand," I said quietly, setting the cup down with care. "You don't need to explain anything further." But I wished he would, even when my mouth against it.
The silence that stretched between us in this room was so thick and unyielding , while outside the window, in the garden, you could see the flowers in the garden swayed in the breeze, and the sunlight spilling with warmth that I could barely feel.
Finally, his voice broke through, softer this time. "It's not like that, Ellie. There is so many things you did not understand. This house, this family, were not easy to be around, Ellie. My mother means well, but her words can sometimes complicate things further."
I glanced up at him, surprised by the weariness in his tone. For a moment, the mask that he always proud of slip from his face, and what I saw was not just the cold, composed man but someone who is carrying a weight too heavy to set down.
"I don't mind complicated," I whispered before I could stop myself.
His eyes snapped to mine when he heard that, and for a breathless second, neither of us moved. The air felt charged, and my pulse raced as if the walls of the sunroom had closed in around us.
Then he looked away, standing abruptly. "It's better if you keep your distance," he said, the words firm but not unkind. "It's for your own good," he whispered.
And with that, he turned his back, leaving me alone with a teacup that had long since gone cold.
As the door closed behind him, I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady the pounding of my heart.
If it truly wasn't what it looked like, then why did it feel exactly that way?