Chapter Thirty Seven

Five Days Later

Chris’s eyes fluttered open as he turned on his side. The first thing he saw was the small Chinese saucer and teapot on the shelf beside his bed. Steam curled lazily from the spout, rising like faint chalk smoke into the quiet air.

Tea. Again.

He sighed and sank his cheek deeper into the pillow.

The teacup and kettle had become a quiet fixture over the past five days, showing up like clockwork on his shelf. His once silent house—filled only with the scent of himself, the echo of his footsteps, the running water in the bath, and the sharp thud of doors closing—was now filled with something new. The air carried notes of honey perfume, fragrant shampoo, and the warm aroma of stews and spices—scents he had long forgotten existed.

He remembered watching her from a distance, arms folded, leaning against a pillar. There she was—in his kitchen—with an apron tied around her waist and a cap snug on her head. She moved effortlessly, humming softly, as if drifting through her own world. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d cooked for himself, let alone had someone cook for him. The clinking of dishes, the rush of water, the low hiss of the stove, and the sound of footsteps weaving through the space—all of it felt surreal.

A strange warmth crept under his skin. But beneath it, something in his stomach twisted—as if a part of him was sounding a quiet alarm.

He exhaled slowly. In that moment, his mind painted an image of his mother—standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes and stirring pots. She turned toward him, grinning like she used to, waving in that playful way. But then the image blurred and shifted—Stacy appeared, walking out of the kitchen with plates in hand. Chris’s eyes followed her to the dining table, where she began setting it with care. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and glanced his way.

His heart trembled—not from fear or guilt, but something warmer. He missed her. Deeply. In that moment, he remembered what it felt like to have a family. To have someone simply listen. A tear slipped down his cheek as he watched his mother approach Stacy, the two of them now standing together, smiling at him—both waving gently, as if to say hello.

“Mo…Mom,” he whispered, lips quivering. He took a step forward—but they vanished. The room before him was empty. Just a quiet dining table.

Was it just my imagination?

His lips parted, but no sound came. Then, footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

A shaky breath slipped from his chest as Isa appeared, carrying plates.

“Boss?” she said, pausing when she noticed him. Her smile bloomed, hesitated for a second—then returned, soft but steady. “Your food is ready,” she said, turning back to set the table.

His heart skipped. That smile—she had never smiled at him like that. He’d only seen it when she was with Alex. After they left the hospital, he thought she came with him out of guilt or duty. But now…

She cares.

The thought made him smile. His gaze lingered, drawn to the warmth she carried. She made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years—a sense of family, of home.

But when her smile wavered slightly, Chris quickly looked away, realizing he had been staring. He touched his face.

Am I smiling too?

He cleared his throat and hurried out without a word.

When she came to call him for dinner, he had ignored her knock, pretending not to hear. He knew that must have hurt. Yet she didn’t pull away. Every morning, she prepared tea for him. She even drew his bath. He had wanted to scold her for wandering into his room, but stopped himself when she gently said he looked exhausted and needed rest.

The night before, when he had complained of a migraine, she sat by his bed. As he closed his eyes, he felt her gaze on him… and then her palm on his forehead. Her touch was like a warm blanket. He wanted to lean into it, to stay in that comfort. But when he stirred, she pulled her hand back quickly. He’d been tempted to grab it, to hold it there—but instead, he curled his fists beneath the blanket and pretended to sleep.

He opened his eyes after she quietly shut the door. Alone again. Yet something lingered—her scent. Honeyed and familiar. It wrapped around him like a memory. It smelled like home.

He closed his eyes and let it carry him into sleep.

A faint smile played on his lips as his gaze returned to the saucer and kettle on the shelf.

For the first time in what felt like forever—he dreamed. Not the usual nightmare of tearful eyes, fire, or shouting. This was different.

It wasn’t even a dream, not really. It was a memory.

He saw his parents—his father painting in the studio, his mother knitting in the sitting room. The house was filled with warmth, and the aroma of baked bread and stew drifted through the air.

And Stacy—he saw her again. He had forgotten the exact shape of her smile, but there it was, radiant and gentle. She blew him a kiss and sat beside him on the bed.

Chris’s gaze shifted to the spot beside him, and he touched it lightly. That was where she had been in his dream. She had smiled, leaned close, and whispered something. He didn’t hear the words with his ears, but he read her lips.

“Everything will be fine,” she had said, gently squeezing his shoulder. Then, she looked deep into him—into the parts he tried to hide.

“Don’t,” she said aloud. “Don’t, Chris.”

And then she was gone.

Chris stirred, blinking. “Don’t…” he echoed softly. What did she mean?

She hadn’t seemed angry. Not even warning him, really. She had looked… sad. Sad for him.

Am I missing something?

A low groan slipped from his throat as he sat up. He leaned his bandaged head against the bedrest, his thoughts twisting.

Was she warning me not to get close to Isa?

His stomach tightened. His throat burned.

He couldn’t deny what he felt. Last night, he had craved Isa’s presence. But he had made a promise—at Stacy’s grave—that he would never fall for anyone again.

Chris exhaled, rubbing his brows.

Am I breaking my promise? Is that why she’s sad? Because I’m betraying her again? I couldn’t protect her… and now…

He shook his head and threw the blanket off.

You’ve got to get yourself together, Chris. Don’t lose yourself.

He pushed himself out of bed and stepped into the bathroom. Warm steam wrapped around him like a soft veil. His eyes landed on the bathtub.

She had prepared a bath for him—again.

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