hannie_💙
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Love Scenario
Part_8
Hanie_🩵
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The Harrington dining room glowed with the soft morning light filtering through tall windows. The long oak table was set neatly, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of conversation filling the air.
Hazel slid into the chair beside Asher, her pastel sundress chosen carefully—pretty, effortless, and meant to remind him of the girl who had always been by his side. She leaned slightly toward him, her smile bright but edged with intention.
“Asher,” she began sweetly, “do you remember when we were kids, and you—”
The door opened.
“Good morning!” Isabelle’s voice was a melody against the quiet clatter of breakfast. She stepped inside, carrying a tray lined with small dishes. The warm aroma of cinnamon and fresh bread drifted through the room. “I thought I’d bring something I made… just a little thank you for yesterday.”
The family’s faces lit up at once.
“Oh, how thoughtful!” Asher’s grandmother said warmly.
“You didn’t have to, dear,” one of the aunts added with delight.
“Come, come, sit with us,” urged another, already making space.
Isabelle blushed modestly as she set the tray down. “It’s just a family recipe—cinnamon rolls. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like them.”
“Like them? They smell divine,” one of the cousins chimed in.
Before Hazel could redirect the attention, Isabelle was guided into a seat—directly across from Asher.
Hazel’s grip on her fork tightened, but she forced her voice brighter. “Asher, like I was saying—do you remember climbing that old tree near the lake when we were kids? You were terrified to get down, and—”
Laughter cut her off. One of the cousins had already taken a bite of Isabelle’s rolls. “These are incredible, Belle!”
Isabelle flushed, smiling. “I’m glad you like them. My mom always said the secret was to let the cinnamon melt into the dough instead of sprinkling it on top.”
Hazel’s smile strained as she glanced at Asher, willing him to respond to her story. But his eyes had drifted—locked on Isabelle as though the table had emptied and only she remained.
“Yes,” he said quietly, answering her without even realizing it. “Simple things are best.”
Hazel’s throat tightened. She leaned closer, almost desperate now. “Asher, you remember, don’t you? You nearly cried until I—”
“Belle,” Asher’s grandmother interrupted smoothly, already using the name as if it belonged, “you must share that recipe with us. We’d love to have it again.”
Hazel’s fork clinked against her plate, her hand trembling slightly. Belle. The intimacy of it stung like a slap. And worst of all, Asher’s attention had never once returned to her.
Isabelle hadn’t even tried. Yet somehow, she had stolen the entire table—and the one person Hazel had been trying to claim for years.
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