Harry Hunter created foam for her, wiped her hands, and lifted her onto the sink to sit: "Your skin is so delicate, if you scrub it any harder, you'll break it. You shouldn't wash it yourself anymore; I think this is just fine."
As he spoke, he took off Isabella Weaver's straw sandals, wet a towel, and wiped her feet.
"Your feet are red from the grass rope. You mustn't wear them anymore."
"Oh."
Isabella obediently responded.
Harry's large hands held her feet, expressing some distress: "I'm not working tomorrow. I'll spend the day with you. Whatever you want to eat, I'll pick it for you. If your feet hurt or your legs ache, I'll carry you, okay?"
Isabella was deeply moved, her voice softening: "You don't have work tomorrow?"
"I've rescheduled everything; I want to be with you."
Harry let go of her feet and hugged her tightly: "Did you miss me today?"
Isabella didn't know why he was suddenly like this, honestly replied: "Yes."
