Stella quickly dismissed the dark thought that had briefly crossed her mind. She couldn’t possibly put Roger in a situation where his only living relative would be labeled a criminal.
The kitchen was filled with the sounds of clinking utensils and chopping as Stella went about preparing the meal. Meanwhile, Weston sat in the living room, the news playing on the television, though his attention was elsewhere. His gaze remained fixed on the kitchen, where Stella was working.
It struck Weston, suddenly and sharply, how many small, quiet moments he had taken for granted in the past. How many of them were lost to him forever?
Stella, on the other hand, wasn’t pouring the same care and attention into the cooking that she used to. She no longer had any interest in pleasing Weston. All she wanted now was to get the task done, to complete the chore she had been assigned. She didn’t bother to make anything extravagant. A simple bowl of chicken noodle soup was all she managed to prepare. When she noticed how plain it looked, she quickly chopped up some scallions to add a bit of color and flavor, but the result still lacked the effort she once put into everything for him.
As Stella placed the soup on the table, Weston emerged from the shower, wearing a simple gray t-shirt that softened his usual intimidating presence. Despite the change in attire, his eyes remained as cold and piercing as ever, like a stone wall. His hair was still damp from the shower. Without saying a word, he tossed a towel onto Stella’s head as he walked past and took a seat at the table, his eyes not leaving her.
“The soup’s getting cold,” Stella said, trying to stay composed, but her frustration simmered beneath her calm exterior.
“There’s no rush,” Weston replied, glancing briefly at the soup before his eyes returned to her face. “Dry my hair with that towel.”
Stella could hardly believe his audacity. What could she say? She was already resigned to her situation. Silently, she moved behind him, placing the towel on his head and rubbing it through his damp hair. She did it mechanically, pretending in her mind that she was drying Roger’s hair instead. Weston, aware of her reluctance, didn’t say anything but allowed her to move his head this way and that.
After a few moments, Stella paused, setting the towel aside. “It’d be better if you blow-dried it,” she suggested flatly.
“You know where the hair dryer is,” Weston said without looking up. “Go get it.”
Stella didn’t respond immediately. She turned and left him there to retrieve the blow dryer, her steps slow as she walked through the mansion, knowing exactly where everything was. She was the one who had organized every corner of this house, after all.
But with every familiar step, a wave of sadness hit her. She had once taken pride in maintaining this home, in creating order, in putting her personal touch on every little thing. The thought of how happy she had once been here broke her heart. It was all so different now. The house seemed to echo her sorrow, every corner a reminder of her past, of everything that had been lost.
When she returned, she found Weston had started eating the soup. His eyes lingered on the plain bowl, and he frowned. “I hate scallions,” he muttered, his tone flat.
Weston didn’t have any particular food preferences—he simply didn’t care. He wasn’t one to enjoy food for its flavor; he was used to only the best. Yet he was also a picky eater, one who hated many things despite never truly liking anything. Stella remembered the times she had gone out of her way to accommodate his tastes, avoiding anything with a strong flavor—garlic, ginger, onions, scallions. She had to keep her meals bland, just to meet his demands.
Without a word, Stella got up, returned to the kitchen, and fetched a small bowl. She sat down opposite Weston and began carefully scooping the scallions out of his soup. Weston’s expression softened, just a touch, but he remained silent as she worked.
Once she was done cleaning up, Stella didn’t ask him how the food was, didn’t bother to show any of the eagerness she once had when she would ask in a soft, hopeful voice whether he liked it. She simply cleared the table, her movements calm, but distant.
Weston, his fingers drumming idly on the table, watched her with intensity. He remembered how, in the past, Stella would ask him shyly, her eyes wide with anticipation, if he had liked the food. Now, she didn’t even glance at him. She just worked, her expression a blank mask.
When Stella finished cleaning up and passed by him, Weston grabbed her wrists and pulled her into his arms, holding her close.
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