Clarie nodded, her eyes still wide, and began to back away. She was almost at the door, her hand reaching for the knob, when she paused. A flicker of genuine concern crossed her face, overriding her fear. She turned back, her voice softer, almost tentative. "Have you eaten dinner?"
Alexander didn't reply immediately. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on her, a silent, unreadable expression on his face.
Seeing his silence, Clarie pressed on, her concern outweighing her discomfort. "If you haven't, I could cook something for you." She stood perfectly still, waiting, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a response. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, between them.
Finally, Alexander's eyes moved, scanning her face, taking in her earnest expression, the lingering tremor in her lips. A beat passed, then another. A subtle shift occurred in his demeanor, almost imperceptible.
"Okay," he said, his voice low, a hint of something unidentifiable in its tone. "I will come down."
A small, almost imperceptible nod from Clarie was her only reply before she quietly slipped out of the study, leaving Alexander alone in the sudden, renewed silence.
In the kitchen, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Clarie's knife against the cutting board was the only sound, but beneath the surface, a storm of anxiety brewed within her. She continued to chop, her movements precise, yet her mind was a whirlwind of uncertainty. What did Alexander like? What were his preferences for dinner? The question gnawed at her, a silent, pressing worry. She hadn't thought to ask Miley earlier, a crucial oversight that now left her adrift in a sea of culinary unknowns. For her own dinner, she had simply prepared some fried rice and a simple curry, a humble meal that had satisfied her hunger. But Alexander… he was different. She imagined him accustomed to a certain standard, a particular palate, and the thought that her simple fare might not meet his expectations was a fresh wave of apprehension.
Anyway, she decided, pushing the doubts aside. She couldn't stand there all night. With a determined sigh, she rummaged through the large, gleaming refrigerator, its interior a treasure trove of fresh ingredients. Her hands moved with a quiet efficiency, selecting cuts of meat, fresh vegetables, and herbs. She decided on a safe, yet potentially satisfying, combination: a simple, perfectly seared meat steak, a comforting, clear soup, and a medley of lightly fried vegetables. The aromas began to fill the kitchen, a comforting warmth spreading through the space, a small comfort against her lingering unease.
An hour later, the soft glow of the kitchen lights illuminated the meticulously arranged dishes on the large dining table. Just as the last dish was placed, Alexander descended the grand staircase. He looked remarkably refreshed, the weariness of the day seemingly shed with his change of clothes. He had traded his formal suit for a dark, comfortable shirt and trousers, his hair still slightly damp from a second shower. His presence, even in casual attire, filled the space. He paused at the threshold of the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the table laden with food. His face, as always, was an unreadable mask, giving away nothing of his thoughts or feelings.
Clarie stood a little to the side, near the kitchen entrance, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She remained perfectly silent, her breath held, not daring to utter a single word. She didn't want to ruin the moment, to say something that might displease him or break the fragile peace. Her internal monologue was clear: If he wants to eat, he will. If he doesn't, then let him do whatever he wants. She watched him, a silent sentinel, her heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
Alexander remained standing for another moment, his eyes still fixed on the food, then slowly, deliberately, he walked to the head of the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down, his gaze lifting to meet Clarie's.
"Are you going to watch me eating?" Alexander asked, his voice even, devoid of any warmth or harshness, simply a statement of fact.
"Huh... I am sorry," Clarie stammered, caught off guard by the direct question. Her cheeks flushed with a sudden rush of embarrassment. Without another word, she turned and practically disappeared from the kitchen, her footsteps light and quick as she retreated to the shadows of the hallway, leaving him alone with the meal.
Alexander watched her go, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his eyes. He then turned his attention back to the food. Without much expectation, his mind still half-prepared for disappointment, he picked up the spoon and fork. He started with the soup, then moved to a piece of the meat steak. He brought it to his lips, a flicker of indifference in his expression.
The moment the meat touched his tongue, his chewing slowed. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. A subtle, yet undeniable, wave of surprise washed over him. The meat was perfectly cooked, tender and flavorful, seasoned with a delicate balance that tantalized his palate. It was, quite simply, delicious. He paused, the fork still in his hand, as he slowly chewed, savoring the unexpected burst of flavor. He had never expected this. Not from her. He had assumed, perhaps unfairly, that her skills would be rudimentary at best. Yet, this... this was good. Very good. It almost, he grudgingly admitted to himself, matched the level of expertise he was accustomed to from Miley. A faint, almost imperceptible shift occurred within him, a tiny crack in the carefully constructed wall of his expectations.
Alexander continued to eat, each bite of the meat steak, the warm soup, and the crisp vegetables a quiet revelation. He ate steadily, methodically, his initial surprise slowly settling into a grudging appreciation. The meal was far better than he had anticipated, a quiet testament to a skill he hadn't known she possessed. When he was finally finished, the plates were remarkably clean, a clear indication of his satisfaction. He pushed his chair back with a soft scrape, a final, decisive sound in the quiet dining room.
He rose from the table, leaving the empty dishes behind, and walked out from the kitchen, his footsteps light and purposeful. He expected to find the hallway empty, the house silent once more. But as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, he paused. There, huddled on a small, upholstered bench near the entrance to the living room, Clarie was fast asleep. Her head was tilted awkwardly against the wall, a few strands of hair escaping her bun to brush her cheek. Her breathing was soft and even, a picture of exhausted vulnerability.
Alexander's gaze lingered on her for a moment, unreadable as ever. He made no sound, no sudden movement. Instead, he simply cleared his throat, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and continued on his way, his footsteps carrying him silently towards the grand staircase and the privacy of his study upstairs. He didn't offer a glance back, didn't acknowledge her presence, or her sleep.
The faint sound of his throat clearing, or perhaps the subtle shift in the air as he passed, was enough to stir Clarie from her light slumber. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented for a moment, before she blinked and sat up straight. She realized where she was.
Her gaze immediately darted towards the kitchen. Hesitantly, she rose and walked towards the doorway, her heart thumping with a mix of trepidation and hope. She peered inside, and then, a small, almost imperceptible gasp escaped her lips. The dining table was clear of food, and the plates were neatly stacked, empty. He had eaten. All of it. A quiet sense of relief, a small, private victory, bloomed within her chest.
Without another thought, she stepped into the kitchen. Her hands, no longer trembling with anxiety, moved with a newfound purpose as she began to gather the dishes. The gentle clinking of porcelain filled the quiet space as she carried them to the sink. She stood there, the warm water running over her hands, and meticulously began to wash each plate, a small, contented smile playing on her lips.