Belle came back quietly.
I heard her before I saw her, the soft rhythm of her steps crossing the floor, the faint rustle of fabric. When I turned my head, she was already there, framed in the doorway like she belonged in it.
She carried a large bowl in both hands, steam rising lazily from its surface. Two spoons and two forks were stuck inside at odd angles, like she hadn't bothered deciding which utensil made more sense and chose all of them instead.
The smell hit me a second later.
Noodles.
Rich broth.
Something savory and warm and impossibly comforting.
"You look too serious," she said, her voice calm but amused. "That's not the face of someone about to be fed."
I huffed out a breath that might've been a laugh. "You brought weapons."
"Always," she replied smoothly, then stepped closer.
The mattress dipped as she sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. She adjusted herself.
