Sarah blinked, thrown off-balance, then recovered with practiced ease. "Oh! Wonderful. What can I get for you?"
I didn't open the menu.
"She'll have the roasted chicken with herb butter, extra mashed potatoes, no green beans. Side of the sourdough rolls with honey butter."
Belle went rigid beside me.
I kept talking. "I'll take the steak. Rare. Fries instead of vegetables."
Sarah scribbled quickly, flashing another bright smile. "Perfect! And can I just say—I'm a huge fan. My brother's obsessed with the Inferno."
"Great."
Her smile faltered again, uncertainty creeping into her expression when I didn't elaborate, didn't flirt back, didn't give her anything to work with.
She shifted her weight. "Well, if you need anything at all—anything—just let me know."
The emphasis hung in the air, obvious and eager.
I stared at her until she flushed and backed away, retreating toward the kitchen with a murmured promise to bring our food out soon.
Belle waited exactly three seconds after Sarah disappeared before leaning in, voice low and clipped, vibrating with fury. "Stop assuming you know me."
I didn't look at her when I answered. "I don't assume. I remember."
Her breath caught—sharp and audible.
Because the dishes I'd listed weren't random selections. They were hers. The exact comfort meal she ordered on bad days at the bookstore when exhaustion crawled up her spine and stress sat heavy in her chest. The meal she'd ordered twice when I'd watched her through the windows before the contract existed, before I'd claimed her, back when I was still learning the shape of her routines.
I remembered everything about her.
Every detail.
Every preference.
Every small, fragile piece she thought nobody noticed.
She turned her head away sharply, staring out the window at the lake beyond, jaw tight and shoulders stiff.
But I saw it anyway.
The flicker of warmth she couldn't quite suppress.
The softening she hated herself for feeling.
Good.
I turned slightly, studying her profile—the tight line of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she refused to meet my eyes even though she knew I was watching.
My thumb found the hem of her shirt, brushing idle circles against the fabric where it met the waistband of her jeans. Not sliding beneath. Just touching. Claiming the space.
"Your father," I said quietly. "When was the last time you spoke?"
Her spine went rigid beneath my arm. "A few days ago."
I waited.
She knew I wanted more.
