ugo carried the tray with both hands, refusing to let me take even a spoon. The smell of warm chicken soup drifted through the room—soft, comforting, and nostalgic. Someone had reheated everything Marina prepared earlier: a pot of golden broth, mashed potatoes so smooth they looked like clouds, crispy French fries, a plate of creamy pasta, and two tall glasses of orange juice still beading with condensation.
He set the tray gently on the table beside the bed, then turned to me like I was made of thin glass.
"Sit," he murmured.
"I'm not that weak," I whispered back.
His eyes softened but didn't budge. "You were unconscious for a whole day, Lea. Humor me."
I sighed, but I moved anyway. My body still felt light, almost too light—as if the rift had taken more energy than I realized. Hugo reached out and lifted me effortlessly, placing me seated on his lap on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped securely around my waist.
"I can sit on my own chair, you know," I muttered.
