ISLA'S POV
I wake to the sound of a soft knock.
It's becoming routine now—one week into my recovery, and Cassian's visits have developed a pattern. Always a knock. Always waiting for me to invite him in. Always treating my space with a respect that seems almost absurd coming from someone who could take whatever he wanted without asking.
"Come in," I call out, already knowing who it is.
He enters carrying a tray, and I watch as he sets it on the table beside my bed with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times. Jasmine tea—my favorite, though I never told him. Fresh fruit. Bread that smells warm and perfect. And tucked beside the plate, a single white flower.
Just like yesterday.
Just like the day before.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, and it's the same question he asks every time, but his voice carries genuine concern. Not obligation. Not duty. Concern.
