The maid brings out our dinner, but I’m barely aware of the food. My mind keeps circling back to the way Benedict’s hand felt on mine, how his words seemed so genuine.
To my surprise, the conversation between us flows easily. Benedict talks about his travels, his favorite books, and even tells a funny story about a failed camping trip when he was a kid. I find myself laughing, my earlier tension melting away.
For the first time, I’m starting to wonder if there’s more to him than I originally thought.
After the meal, we move to the living room, and my gaze lands on a faded photograph in a frame on a table by the door.
It’s a picture of a younger Benedict with a woman, her hair falling softly over her face, her arm wrapped around a younger version of him.
Even though her face isn’t fully visible, I can see the love in her eyes.
I pick up the frame, my thumb running over the glass. “Is this your mom?” I ask, glancing up at him.
Benedict’s face lights up with a smile, and he nods. “Yeah, from a long time ago.”