When Isabella Weaver got home, her eyes were still red, and her lips were red too.
Harry Hunter carried her out of the car, and seeing her eyes so red, he couldn't bear to let her walk and carried her straight to the bedroom.
Isabella lay on the bed, pulling his hand over to massage it.
Harry was momentarily confused, "What's wrong?"
"Didn't you say your hand was sore at noon? Let me massage it for you."
Harry's heart instantly melted into a pool of tenderness. Even though she cried till her eyes were red, she still remembered his sore hand, never forgetting to be considerate of him.
"It doesn't hurt anymore, I'm a man, I'm not that delicate."
"But I still feel sorry for you."
Isabella gently kissed his fingers by her lips, then nestled into his arms, feeling at ease and content.
Harry held her, talking to her, telling her funny little stories from the company, coaxing her into a good mood.
