There had been a time when I caught a fever in the middle of winter. He had panicked, lifted me onto his back, and carried me all the way to a safe doctor through freezing wind, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he kept asking if I was still conscious. I still remembered the way he cried that night, like losing me would destroy him. Back then he wasn't the Don yet. Back then his hands still shook for reasons that had nothing to do with violence.
And now?
Now he had been part of the accident that hurt me… and didn't even bother to show up.
He knew I hated bitter melon. For five years, he had never once ordered it, never once brought anything remotely bitter to our table. He used to say even the smell made me frown too much.
And yet now, like we had gone back in time to when we had just met, like none of those years had ever existed, he casually ordered it again without a second thought.
I curled my lips into a faint, tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach my eyes.
"I really hate bitter melon," I said softly. "I can't even stand the smell."
"Then don't eat it," he replied immediately, his tone sharp and impatient. "Simple."