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He hadn't been to the brick house for an eternity.
Eileen secretly hoped Cesare would notice the small changes.
For example, how the orange tree had grown.
But his look remained indifferent.
He behaved as if he’d been here countless times and had long been accustomed to everything.
He only stopped briefly under the tree, looked up—and that was it.
No other reaction.
"Thank you for seeing me off." When Eileen bowed at the door, Cesare crossed his arms and looked down from above.
She again felt the difference in height and raised her eyes to him.
"Only thank you?"
"E-eh, then..."
"I think I’ve earned at least dinner." He was hinting at that time she’d invited only the knights.
Cesare leaned against the door and leaned toward Eileen.
His large hand touched her short bangs.
"After all, I even helped cut your hair."
Eileen only blinked, but finally invited: "T-then come in?
It's not very...
I didn't prepare at all..."
But Cesare, not waiting for a refusal, stepped inside.
Eileen watched with wide eyes: he seemed so alien in this modest, cozy house.
But Cesare looked around as if he were an old guest.
His gaze lingered on the door to her father's bedroom.
Eileen rushed there, knocked, and tried to open.
The door gave way.
It seemed her father wasn't home.
"Baron Elrod is still hanging about somewhere?"
"Yes.
But lately he, it seems, doesn't go to the Fiore Street area."
"Because he can't." A crooked smirk spoke for itself.
Cesare walked past the table, inspecting the kitchen, and casually dropped: "Tell me if you want him to stay home.
I'll arrange it."
"No, everything's fine, really." Eileen followed him into the kitchen.
Before his eyes she began opening and closing cabinets, checking supplies.
Fortunately, there were enough products for simple sandwiches.
They didn't even need cooking—just assembling, and even if the taste wasn't great, it wasn't so noticeable.
Of course, for treating Cesare it was too modest...
*‘Maybe run and buy something?’* Holding a paper bag with a baguette, she stole a glance at Cesare.
He snapped his fingers and asked:
"Making sandwiches?"
"How did you guess?" He’d guessed so accurately that she almost dropped the bread from surprise.
Cesare took the baguette from her hands and placed it next to the cutting board.
"It's written on your face: ‘sandwiches.’"
"I'm a bad cook...
With what's here, I can only make those." She automatically reached to adjust her glasses but only ran her fingers over empty space.
It was still too early to get used to life without glasses and bangs.
"And with the products you're more confident?"
"No." She answered seriously—what if he seriously suggested it.
But seeing his smile, she realized it was a joke.
*‘But how to distinguish them?..’* Whether he was joking or speaking seriously was always a mystery.
She’d have to continue taking everything literally, Eileen decided.
She rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands.
But Cesare too took off his gloves, rolled up his sleeves, and began washing his hands nearby.
He placed the baguette on the board and took a large bread knife.
"G-give it here!"
"The knife?" Smirking, he instantly sliced the baguette lengthwise.
Everything in the kitchen was too small and low for him, but he easily managed the knife.
Eileen watched in surprise at the perfectly even slices—as if measured by a ruler.
*‘If only His Grace would help sort samples in the laboratory like that...’* She felt a greedy interest in his talent, but using such talent for knife work in a laboratory seemed sacrilege.
Realizing with sadness that she was missing a beautiful assistant, Eileen assembled a sandwich, neatly laying out the filling.
Salami, capitala, black olives, lettuce, red onion, tomatoes, several types of cheese—and covered it with a second piece of bread.
It was shameful even to call it cooking.
Watching Cesare slice the long sandwich into convenient pieces, Eileen suddenly realized:
*‘That's the kind of marriage I wanted.’* Modest sharing of everyday moments.
But becoming a Duchess meant parting with this dream forever.