By the time I woke up, the sky outside was already dark, and Yohann had returned home from somewhere. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and moments later, he said, "Come eat. I brought back some takeout."
I didn't hesitate. I was hungry, so I made my way to the dining table. As I sat down and looked at the food before me, I couldn't help but pause.
Back when Yohann had first started his business, all the long nights and constant drinking had really messed with his stomach. The doctor had insisted he stick to a light diet, and I had taken cooking classes to make sure he stayed on track.
It seemed like another lifetime ago now, but there was still a faint scar on the back of my hand from when I'd accidentally burned myself cooking for him.
Absentmindedly, I traced the mark while Yohann, unaware of my thoughts, picked up a piece of fatty braised pork and placed it on my plate.
"This is from that restaurant Zandria loves. It's really good; you should try it," he said casually; his tone softened when he mentioned her name as if offering a small olive branch.