Fenris gets her gifts. Little things, trinkets, bits of jewelry, a scarf for her hair. But he doesn’t give them to Isabela. He leaves them lying around the manor where she will eventually find them.
When she does, as she invites herself in and wanders through his home, idly picking through his few possessions, he will shrug and say he looted it from a chest on the Wounded Coast, or on some other adventure, and she can take it if she likes. And, always, she likes.
He begins to hide things in unlikely locations for his own amusement, colorful magpie treasures that make him think of her, and the squeal of delight she makes when she finds them is even better than thanks.
Isabela catches on to the game quickly, of course. But she maintains the ruse. It’s like a treasure hunt. And this way she never has to acknowledge how thoughtful the gifts are, how well-chosen.