I steal another piece just to watch his face.
He shakes his head, grinning. "Unbelievable."
***
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting on the couch with bowls of pasta balanced on our knees, legs tangled together, the TV on mute in the background.
It's good pasta. Simple. The kind of thing I haven't eaten in years because every meal at home is plated by someone in whites and tastes like obligation.
This tastes like us.
I twirl another forkful, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's already halfway through his bowl, eating with the single-minded focus of someone who burns six thousand calories a day and treats food like fuel.
Then he looks at me and throws one arm around my shoulders.
“Look at us,” he says softly. “Like a proper couple, right?”
I smile.
“I was scared at first,” he admits. “But you waiting here for me… it’s like I have something to look forward to. Something to come back to.”
“When I get a job,” I laugh, nudging him lightly in the ribs. “That might ruin your fantasy, though.”
His hand stiffens on my shoulder. The smile drops. He goes back to eating in silence.
I hadn’t meant to ruin the evening. I didn’t expect the job remark to land like that.
“Not that I have an inbox full of offers,” I add. “After Eiswerk ended, I went through some listings and realized I’m not really qualified for anything.”
He sighs and sets down his fork. “You don’t have to rush. I earn enough.”
“I have to get a job sooner or later,” I say, frowning.
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it—defensive, brittle—something I feel even before he speaks again.
“Also,” he says, grin widening in that deflecting way of his, “imagine the tabloids if the Moreau princess had to work because I can’t buy her dinner. I’d have to move to Antarctica.”
I don’t laugh.
His grin falters.
“It’s not about tabloids,” I say quietly. “Why would I sit on a couch all day waiting for you to bring me food?”
“You have your influencer contracts,” he says with a shrug. As if that’s enough.
“No.” My eyebrows lift. “First, some of them were cut—maybe after my father pulled some strings. Second, that’s not a real job.”
“Find new deals. We’re a power couple now, trending—you said so. Monetize it.”
“We’re a power couple, Nico,” I say slowly. “I was nothing without my father, without my last name. If our relationship is my only source of income, then I’m nothing without you.”
“You don’t need to monetize anything, Élise,” he says sharply. “Don’t act like you’re doing this because I can’t provide.”
“Does this have something to do with what my father told you?”
I frown. It sounds exactly like something my father would say.
“I just want you to be happy.” He spreads his hands defensively. “Go get a job if you want—but you don’t sound happy when you talk about it. So why do it if you don’t have to?”
