Weeks passed quietly.
The Rossi family returned home, carrying with them leftovers, laughter, and the kind of reassurance that only family visits could give. Life settled back into its rhythm, Andrea got his job, —work, duty, routine.
And yet—
Nothing was the same.
---
Isabella noticed it first in small, treacherous ways.
The way her heart skipped when Xavier's voice called her name across the infirmary.
The way warmth crept up her neck when he stood too close—never crossing a line, always respectful, always aware.
Tiny red tints bloomed in her cheeks before she could stop them.
Professional composure betrayed by a smile she couldn't suppress.
It unsettled her.
---
Xavier didn't change his behavior.
That was the worst part.
He didn't press.
Didn't tease.
Didn't look at her like he expected anything in return.
He was simply… there.
Present.
Attentive.
When he smiled, it was easy.
When he laughed, it filled the space gently.
When he spoke, her mood lifted before she even realized it had been heavy.
She hated how natural it felt.
---
"You're humming," Andrea said one afternoon.
"I am not."
"You are," he insisted. "You only hum when you're happy."
Isabella paused. "I'm just… content."
Andrea laughed softly. "Careful. That's how it starts."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't start."
"I'm not," he said. "Just observing."
---
At work, Isabella caught herself looking forward to Room Four.
Not out of duty.
Out of anticipation.
Xavier noticed too.
"You're smiling more," he said one day.
She stiffened. "Am I?"
"Yes," he said simply.
She looked away. "Must be the weather."
He smiled, not pushing. "Must be."
---
Some days, she convinced herself it was attachment.
Trauma bonds formed by shared history and rediscovered wounds.
Familiarity mistaken for longing.
She had read enough psychology texts to argue herself into calm.
Other days—
She caught herself imagining his hand in hers.
His laugh in her kitchen.
His presence in the spaces she had carved out for herself alone.
And panic followed swiftly after.
---
One evening, they walked the perimeter path again, silence comfortable between them.
Xavier spoke about a book he was reading.
She listened too closely.
He asked her opinion.
She answered too softly.
When their hands brushed accidentally, the shock ran straight through her.
She pulled back.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly.
He shook his head. "Don't be."
Her heart pounded.
This is dangerous, she thought.
---
That night, Isabella stood in front of the mirror, studying her own reflection.
The blush she couldn't hide.
The softness returning to her eyes.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered.
Love?
Attachment?
Memory wearing hope's clothing?
She didn't know.
And she refused to lie to herself by naming it too soon.
---
Xavier lay awake in his own room, staring at the ceiling.
He noticed everything.
The way she lingered now.
The way she looked away too late.
He didn't reach for her.
Didn't rush her.
Because he knew—
If it was love, it would come when she was ready.
And if it wasn't—
He would survive that too.
---
Between them hung an unnamed thing.
Gentle.
Growing.
Neither of them brave enough to call it love—
But neither willing to let it go.
Not yet.