Her gaze flicks to the tartare. Then to the carbonara. Then to the wine. Then back to me.
I watch her reach for her fork hesitantly.
“Eat,” I say again, softer this time. “You’ve barely eaten all day.”
She lets out a breath.
“Nico.”
The way she says my name tells me she’s right at the edge.
I lift a brow.
“Yes?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her cheeks go a little pinker.
And then she does something that almost makes me laugh.
She reaches for the carbonara. Twirls a bite onto her fork. And then, at the last second, she pauses. Sets it down.
“I think… I want something plain,” she says.
“Plain.”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “Like… toast.”
I look at the plates. Then I look at her.
“Toast,” I repeat.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t start.”
I lean forward and reach my hand out to her forehead.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask softly. “What’s going on?”
Her fingers curl around her water glass like it’s an anchor.
She looks at the food again. Then at me. Then away.
And I can see it—everything she’s fighting. The fear. The timing. Her father still in the ICU.
“Try to eat a little, okay?” I say. All I want to do is pull her into my arms and give her whatever she wants.
But I need to see this through, so I eat some food, hoping to entice her, and steel myself for one last course.
Then David shows up with dessert.
Tiramisu and a sweet dessert wine.
Erica’s eyes flick to the tiramisu, and I see that this is the final straw.
She swallows hard. I don’t bother to tell her to eat this time.
I just watch her reach her breaking point. She rubs her nervous fingers together, then looks up at me, eyes wide and terrified.
“Nico,” she says again.
