Which he does.
He looks up the second I step in, like he felt me move through the house before I even hit the bottom stair.
His gaze lands on my face and holds there for a beat too long.
“Morning,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“Morning,” I manage.
He turns the burner down and sets the spatula aside, movements efficient without being rushed. He looks… normal. If you ignore the faint scar on his cheek. If you ignore the fact that I have a positive pregnancy test in my pocket, and my heart is thundering.
“You slept,” he says.
I swallow.
“Twelve hours,” I say, almost sheepishly.
His mouth twitches.
“You needed it,” he replies.
The simplicity of that makes my eyes burn.
He takes a plate from the counter and sets it on the island. Eggs. Toast. Potatoes. Nothing fancy. Just perfect.
“Sit,” he says.
I slide onto a stool at the counter.
He sets a glass of water in front of me, then the plate.
“Eat,” he says.
My stomach turns, and for a second I don’t know if it’s hunger or nausea or nerves.
“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.
He leans his hip against the counter across from me, arms folding loosely, and just looks at me.
“Okay,” he says.
That single word knocks me off balance harder than an argument would have.
Okay?
No push?
No correction?
My fingers curl around the edge of the plate.
I take a small bite anyway, mostly to stop myself from talking.
The food is good. Of course it is. Nico doesn’t do anything halfway.
He watches me eat.
