I push the container across the table. “Here.”
He doesn’t touch it. “That’s your dinner.”
“I meal-prepped. I have more at home.” My stomach immediately sends up a protest flare.
Liar.
You’re starving and you know it.
“I don’t need—” he begins.
“You’re not doing anyone favors by starving yourself,” I interrupt. “Least of all the donors who keep calling because they’re worried you’re going to collapse from malnutrition in the middle of a board meeting.”
He sighs, then looks at the container. Then at me. Then back at the container.
He stands up and walks to the kitchenette area,opens a drawer, and returns with two actual metal forks.
“Didn’t know we had those,” I say.
“Executive floor perks,” he replies, setting one fork in front of me.
He studies the container a moment longer, like he’s only eaten Thai food cooked by a sommelier.
Then he takes a bite.
“It’s good,” he says after a moment.
I grin. “It’s pad thai. Hard to screw up.”
“What about you?” he asks, pausing mid-bite.
“I had a granola bar,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “Not enough. You eat the other half.”
I blink at him. “Are you seriously trying to share my own food back with me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s—”
“Fair,” he interrupts. “You pushed food at me. Now I’m pushing it back. We share, or I put the fork down and go back to my Doritos.”
I stare at him. He stares back.
Deadlock.
“Fine,” I mutter, pulling the container back toward the middle of the table.
We eat in silence. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The vending machines kick on with a gentle mechanical sigh.
Through the windows, I can see the city, all dark glass and scattered lights. At this hour, it looks almost peaceful from up here.
I sneak glances at him between bites. Nico eats methodically. Like there’s a proper technique for consuming noodles and he’s determined to master it.
“You meal prep every Sunday?” he askssuddenly.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Saves money and time during the week.”
