Gesture

Artemis's POV

The penthouse was quiet when I padded into the kitchen the next morning, still barefoot, still aching in the places grief liked to nest.

Ashbourne's skyline shimmered through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a painting rendered in fog and chrome. Wisps of morning cloud stretched between the jagged steel silhouettes, glinting as the sun tried to claw through.

Somewhere below, the city was awake—honking and blinking and spinning its stories. But up here, it was still. The kind of stillness you could breathe in. The kind that made you wonder if silence was a gift or a warning.

I hadn't slept much. Not for lack of comfort—the guest bedroom Isaiah insisted I take was more elegant than half the boutique hotels I'd ever stayed in. Soft dove-grey bedding hugged a mattress that practically exhaled when you laid on it.

Artisanal linen curtains filtered the morning light into a hazy watercolor wash. A gentle diffuser scent—citrus peel and something faintly herbal—reminded me of my grandmother's quiet room in Xiyan, a place where time seemed suspended.

But the quiet was too loud. My brain wouldn't stop looping the flashbulbs from last night. My father's clenched jaw. My own voice, somehow steady in the aftermath. And Isaiah... not looking at me like I'd shattered something fragile—but like I'd carried something heavy alone for far too long.

He hadn't pressed. He hadn't hovered. He just stood outside the door like a sentry, a silent wall between me and the world. I'd heard the soft thud of his back against the doorframe, the subtle shift of weight as he waited. And when I finally emerged hours later, red-eyed and quiet, he'd only said one thing:

"There's fresh ginger tea in the fridge. If you can't sleep, it helps."

Now, here I was.

The marble kitchen island gleamed under the soft overhead light, its polished surface untouched. A soft hum came from somewhere unseen—the fridge, probably. The space was too pristine, like a set waiting for actors. I opened the fridge slowly, expecting the usual sterile rows of mineral water and high-end health drinks.

But there it was.

A glass carafe. Hand-labeled in neat, medical script.

"For Artemis — Gui Hua + Ginger. No honey."

I blinked.

I had mentioned that once. Not even to him. It was during a planning call with Liv, while I absently rubbed my stomach and muttered that Western meds were too blunt, too cold. I'd told her how I missed osmanthus tea—Gui Hua—because it soothed the burning better than anything else. It wasn't even a real conversation. More like a sigh she was kind enough to hear.

He remembered.

I poured a cup. The aroma was immediate. Floral, sharp, warm. I sat at one of the barstools, cupping the mug like it held something sacred. The ceramic's warmth bled into my palms.

The first sip nearly undid me.

Not too sweet. Just a whisper of bitterness, a velvet edge that tugged at something old in my chest. It tasted like rainy nights in Xiyan, in my mother's ancestral home—where wind tapped on wooden shutters and stories lived in every beam. A taste of memory. Of a home I hadn't visited in years. Of something I might've already lost.

My throat tightened.

Then I heard it. Footsteps. Slow, soft, deliberate.

Isaiah padded in from the hallway, still tousled from sleep. His navy Henley clung to his frame, sleeves lazily pushed up to his forearms. Black joggers. Barefoot. The sight of him—unguarded, half-awake, real—made something flutter inside me. A bird stirring in its cage.

"You're up early," he said, voice low and rough with sleep.

"So are you," I answered, watching him move toward the espresso machine.

He gave a tired shrug. "Medical training. I haven't slept past 6 a.m. since residency. My body thinks rest is a myth."

The machine sputtered to life. Steam hissed. He moved with practiced rhythm—efficient but calm. The silence stretched, but it didn't feel awkward. It felt... tentative. Like a bridge being built.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, not turning around.

I hesitated. "Some."

He nodded. Just once. No interrogation. Just acceptance.

He leaned against the counter, coffee in hand. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the tired set of his eyes.

"Thanks," I said finally.

He looked over. "For what?"

I raised the cup. "The tea."

Isaiah offered a quiet smile. "Didn't know if you'd want it. But I figured... worth trying."

"You remembered."

His eyes met mine. Steady. Calm.

"I listen."

Simple words. No embellishment. But they anchored something inside me. Because I'd been surrounded by people who heard me all my life—but rarely did anyone listen.

We stood in that hush—the city murmuring far below, the windows catching streaks of pale gold.

After a pause, I said, "Last night... when you said you'd take the heat if I wanted to leave..."

He straightened slightly. "Yeah?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

The answer came fast. No drama. Just truth.

I nodded slowly, fingers tightening around the mug. The warmth grounded me.

"We should decide," I said. "How this is going to work."

He placed his coffee on the counter. His expression didn't shift. No surprise. No resistance. Just... waiting.

"Go on."

"Rooms. Boundaries. Schedules. If we're going to make this look real, we need clarity."

He nodded. "Okay."

"I keep the guest room. I need space."

"Done."

"Public events—we coordinate with Liv. You handle your media camp, I'll handle mine. But if it gets personal—"

"—we draw a line," he finished.

I met his gaze. "Right."

Another pause.

"And inside this penthouse... we keep it honest. No pretending. No PR."

He waited. Let me finish.

"Just people. Not pawns."

That landed.

He studied me for a long moment. Then said, quietly, "Deal."

There it was. A quiet truce.

Not romantic. Not revolutionary. But honest. Respectful. Human.

And something else. A gesture.

As he turned to rinse out his cup, he added, voice casual, "There's a gallery opening in Meilun next month. More heritage than politics. Old restorations. Minimal press. If you want to go... I can make space."

I didn't answer right away.

But my fingers brushed the rim of my tea cup again. And for the first time in a long while, I let the idea of something... soft... stay with me.

Even after he left the room.

Later that afternoon, I took a walk on the penthouse balcony. The wind was high but warm, tangling my hair as I leaned on the railing and stared out at Ashbourne's skyline.

From here, the city didn't look cruel. It looked curated. Almost kind. A place of possibility rather than pressure.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from my assistant,Imka. A photo. Someone had tagged me in a street mural downtown—an image of a golden deer tangled in wires and blossoms, a reference to the Project Elysian plans I once loved.

We haven't forgotten, the graffiti said in stylized script.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I forwarded it to Isaiah, with no comment.

Two minutes later, a reply:

"Looks like you made more impact than damage."

I smiled. For once, not for the cameras.

The rain had started around dusk, a slow drizzle that deepened into a relentless downpour as night settled over Ashbourne. The city blurred beyond the tall windows—neon lights bleeding into the wet glass like melted ink. Thunder growled in the distance. It felt like the sky couldn't hold itself together, either.

I curled up on the velvet settee in the living room, the cashmere throw pulled up to my chin.

A documentary murmured quietly from the screen, all soft British narration and grainy archive footage. I wasn't really watching. Just... waiting.

Maybe that was the strange part. That I waited.

I didn't know what time it was when the door finally opened with a soft click. The hinges were nearly silent, but somehow, I still heard it. Or maybe I felt it.

Isaiah stepped inside, shoulders hunched, rainwater dripping faintly from his coat. He looked like he had walked through a storm—not just the one outside, but something heavier, something that clung to him in the slump of his posture, in the quiet sigh he released as he set his hospital bag by the console.

His tie was askew. His scrubs peeked out beneath a half-wrung button-down. Damp hair clung to his forehead, and his shoes squelched faintly on the mat.

I sat up quickly.

The blanket tumbled off my shoulders, and I turned off the television. My heart kicked strangely, like it was surprised to see him even though I had been waiting all night.

He hadn't seen me yet.

Then our eyes met.

And something shifted in the air.

His entire body stilled—like a held breath. His gaze locked on mine, and for a second, he looked almost confused to find me there. As if some quiet part of him had expected to return to silence.

Then—A smile.

Soft. Exhausted. Completely unguarded.

"You waited," he said, voice hoarse, like he hadn't used it in hours.

A grin pulled at my lips before I could stop it. "I thought maybe you hadn't eaten."

He stepped further into the room, shrugging off his coat with slow fingers. His shoulders look broader in the soft light. But tired. Carved with the weight of too many hours and too many patients.

"I haven't," he admitted, tossing the coat on the back of a nearby chair. "But it's fine, I'll just grab—"

"I didn't cook," I blurted out, flushing. "I was going to. I even pulled up a recipe video. But... I realized I didn't know where anything was. Or what half of your kitchen tools even do. And the last time I cooked, my smoke alarm turned into a war siren."

Isaiah's eyes crinkled. That tired smile deepened into a chuckle. "Honestly, I'm relieved. The last thing I want after an eighteen-hour shift is to treat us both for smoke inhalation."

I mock-scowled. "You're mocking your wife."

"I'm mocking my luck," he said, stepping closer. "Most of my dates never even offered food. You already beat them all."

His words weren't flirtatious—not quite. Just true.

And strangely kind.

He crossed to the kitchen, sleeves already rolled, bare feet padding softly on the cool floors. "Let me handle dinner tonight. I have a go-to meal I make when I'm too tired to function."

"Microwave noodles?" I teased.

"Better. Microwave noodles with soy sauce and fake scallions."

I laughed, for real this time. "Gourmet."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Only for my wife."

That word still made something tighten behind my ribs. Not in fear. Just in surprise. Like I hadn't yet made peace with how it fit on me.

Within minutes, the kitchen filled with the warm, simple scent of broth and sesame. Isaiah moved efficiently, even when tired—like his body had memorized the steps. He didn't talk much. But he didn't retreat into silence, either. It felt... companionable. Peaceful.

The storm outside pounded harder against the windows. But inside, it felt warm.

We sat at the island, the bowls steaming in front of us. Nothing fancy—just noodles, soft-boiled eggs, and a few greens.

But it felt like more than enough.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, between sips.

Isaiah looked up. "For what?"

"For not knowing how to make you dinner. For... not being the kind of wife this house expects."

He was quiet for a beat. Then he set down his spoon and turned fully toward me.

"This house expects nothing," he said gently. "I expect nothing. Except maybe honesty. And a little space to be human."

I stared at him.

The rain softened to a hush behind us. Streetlights danced in the puddles outside.

"I might try again tomorrow," I said, quietly. "Something easy. Maybe congee."

His smile came slow, curling up on one side. "Then I'll bring ginger and rice. And a fire extinguisher, just in case."

I nudged his arm. "You're impossible."

"I'm exhausted," he replied, resting his head back for a second. "But right now... I don't feel heavy. That's rare."

Our eyes met again.

There it was—softness. Not desire. Not duty. Just warmth.

Maybe that was rarer than anything.

Later, after we'd finished, he washed the dishes while I dried. The sink filled with steam. The smell of sesame clung to the air. Our elbows brushed once. Then again. Neither of us moved away.

"Tomorrow," I said, "I'll work on cleaning up the guest room, too. I left my folders everywhere."

"Leave them," he said. "It's your space."

"I don't want to take over."

He turned toward me slowly, eyes clear despite his weariness. "You live here, Artemis. You don't have to ask permission to exist."

Something caught in my throat.

I nodded.

Then I gave him a tired smile of my own.

"Then I should probably go back to working," I said lightly, "before Xu Atelier kicks me out for neglecting half my deadlines."

Isaiah arched a brow. "And if they do?"

He leaned in just enough for the words to feel conspiratorial.

"You know what to do now, hmm? Just call your husband. And you know what happens next."

I let out a laugh—genuine, a little breathless.

"What? You'll storm into the boardroom in scrubs and scare them off with medical jargon?"

He grinned. "If that doesn't work, I'll show them what happens when someone threatens my wife."

That made something in my chest go very, very still.

Not because I believed he'd actually wage war for me—but because part of me believed he would.

We stood there, our hands still damp from dishes, our smiles a little too long.

And for the first time in this penthouse, it didn't feel like a performance.

It felt like... maybe something new was beginning.

Slow. Uneven.

But real.

That night, as I lay in the soft sheets of the guest room—my room now—I thought of the tea again. The floral bitterness. The simple kindness.

Isaiah hadn't asked for anything in return.

And for the first time in weeks, my body was unclenched enough to fall asleep before midnight.

Without dreams.

Without pain.

Just the lingering taste of osmanthus, and a quiet sense that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't entirely alone in this.