ISABELLA'S POV
A smell woke me.
Not the suspicious kind that meant Leo tried to make toast and failed. No burnt edges, no smoke alarm chirps, no threat to national security.
This was warm. Savory. Something with garlic... and real butter?
I cracked one eye open.
Ivy was already at the edge of the bed, tiny paws tapping softly against the sheets like she approved the menu.
That couldn't be right. I blinked blearily at the ceiling, then at the clock. It was way too early for Leo to be trying anything in the kitchen without fire insurance.
I groaned. My ankle throbbed faintly beneath the bandage.
Still, something smelled... good.
I shuffled out of bed, blanket still clinging to one leg.
Ivy let out a soft bark like, Finally, woman, and trotted toward the hallway.
I followed, slowly.
I walked into the kitchen slowly, still groggy from pain meds and dreams that didn't stay. The scent alone grounded me—eggs, thyme, roasted tomatoes. The real kind of breakfast.
