“I meant what I said,” he adds, still quiet. “You could’ve called.”
I blink at him.
This isn’t his usual way.
Nico doesn’t coax.
He doesn’t soften himself for people. He doesn’t take his time. He doesn’t sit and wait for someone to feel ready.
He manages. He directs. He gets results.
That’s who he is.
So if he’s being like this with me—
Wow. I must be worse off than I thought.
My stomach twists again, and I press a hand lightly to my midsection without thinking.
Nico’s eyes flick to the gesture.
“Sit,” he says.
There it is. A hint of the Nico I know.
But even that comes without sharp edges.
“I’m fine,” I try.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at me like he already knows how this ends.
I feel myself cave.
The table is a small square table with a chair on each of the four sides. I step to the table and sit in my usual chair because it’s easier than standing under his eyes.
He pulls a plate from my cabinet like he’s been here a hundred times.
He sets it in front of me, then a fork.
Then he opens the foil pan, and the smell is stronger now—eggplant parm. Tomato sauce. Melted cheese. That deep, rich fried eggplant smell that’s both crisp and soft.
My stomach roils.
I swallow hard.
“I really don’t—”
“Your appetite will come back after a couple of bites,” he says, anticipating. “Right now you’re running on nothing but adrenaline and caffeine.”
He cuts a portion like this is normal. Like he does this all the time. Like he’s fed a hundred fragile people in kitchens late at night.
He puts food on my plate.
Then he opens another container.
Bread. Still warm.
He takes one, breaks it in half, and hands one half to me.
