He nods. Doesn’t say anything at first. Then: “It’s smart. Planning ahead. Most people don’t.”
I blink at him. “Are you actually complimenting my meal prep habits?”
“I’m stating a fact.”
I stare at him. “Oh.”
We keep eating. The silence stretches but it’s not uncomfortable. We’re both too tired to maintain the careful ice that’s been our default.
When we’re halfway he pauses, his fork hovering over the container.
“You know, this reallyisgood,” he says, like he’s genuinely surprised. “Earlier I was just being polite.”
“Oh you were, huh?” I don’t try to mask the playful annoyance in my tone.
“Yep. But you really outdid yourself this time.”
I can’t help but snort. “Uh huh. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“No I mean it,” he says. “This is some of the best Thai I’ve had.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I go with it anyway. “You’re shocked that food from a glass container can taste decent?”
“Not shocked. Just... I don’t usually eat like this.”
“Oh, you prefer cheap Doritos like most billionaires, I totally understand,” I quip.
He laughs. “No I meant... well, the prepped food I have from Thessaly... it doesn’t usually taste very good. I guess I need a better chef.”
“I guess you do,” I agree.
“Don’t get me wrong, when fresh, her food is great,” he admits. “But it doesn’t keep well.”
“Guess that’s what happens when you don’t use abunch of preservatives like me!” I quip. “If at first you don’t succeed, and more salt!”
“Maybe so, maybe so.” He takes another bite. “You always prep Thai food?”
“This week, yes. Last week was chicken burrito bowls. Next week, who knows. Maybe I’ll get crazy and do stir-fry. By the way, have you noticed... why does the break room smell a bit like burnt popcorn? Is that you who’s burning popcorn in the microwave?”
“Not me,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Dashiell. He was on a conference call and forgot about it. Left if for six minutes, if I recall.”
I give him a disbelieving look. “Your CFO almost burned down the building because he can’t multitask?”
“Apparently,” he replies.
I laugh.
Nico’s eyes are full of warmth. Gone is the cold professional he’s perfected over the past few weeks, replaced by something... warmer. More human.
Don’t do this to yourself, Bree.
Don’t read into it.
We’re both just tired.
This doesn’t mean anything.
I focus on the last of my noodles. Try to ignore the way the break room suddenly feels smaller and more intimate. Like we’re not just two coworkers sharing food in a corporate space but two people who once spent a night learning exactly how the other one sounds when—
