Bernard and Isadora sat under the shade of the ancient oak tree, the sunlight filtering through the leaves and casting a dappled pattern on the ground. Bernard gently massaged Isadora's slender fingers, his touch tender and reverent.
Isadora leaned into his arms, a serene smile gracing her lips. She marveled at the dichotomy of Bernard's nature—the gentleness that seemed impossible for someone with his past.
"How come you are never scared of me, Isadora?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that blended with the rustling of the leaves.
Since their last meeting with his mother, where his dark past had been laid bare, Isadora had not pressed him for details. Bernard had expected questions, perhaps even fear, but she had offered only silent understanding.
The longing to know of his past that he had seen in her eyes had been replaced by unwavering love and delight, leaving him mystified by her indifference to such a terrifying revelation.
