It’s not pretty.
It doesn’t need to be.
When I walk back in, she’s staring at nothing.
Her hair is a bit unruly after her shower, and she’s swallowed into that Rutgers sweatshirt like another blanket.
Her face is swollen from crying. Her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and her mouth is a little puffy, like she’s been biting it.
Despite all that, she’s still stunning.
She looks at the towel-wrapped bag like she doesn’t know what it is.
I set it in her hands.
“This is for your face,” I murmur. “Just move it around a bit, okay? Your eyes. Your cheeks. It’ll help and also feel good.”
She blinks, slowly.
Then she nods once, small, and presses it to her cheek like she’s following instructions in a language she barely speaks right now.
I grab the remote off the coffee table and put it in her other hand.
Her fingers close around it without thought.
“I have to put the food away,” I tell her. “You find something to watch in the meantime.”
I turn back toward the kitchen.
“Nico.”
The way she says my name stops me.
It’s quiet.
It’s… uncertain.
I don’t let her build another sentence.
I step back to the couch, lean down, and kiss her.
Gentle. Brief.
Her lips taste like tomato sauce and tears.
Her breath catches, and I feel cold against my chest as her hand comes up, clearly forgetting the ice pack clutched in it.
When I pull back, I keep my forehead close to hers for one beat.
“No more apologies,” I say in a low voice.
Her brows pinch. “But—”
I cut her off before she can spiral again. “If you apologize to me again,” I say, tone flat like I’m delivering a command, “I’m not going to share my gelato with you.”
She frowns, confused, but I see the flicker of interest anyway. It’s tiny. It’s there.
It makes her pause.
