“Start with this. Slowly,” he says, then continues opening containers.
Simple salad, crisp greens, and tomatoes.
Roasted potatoes with herbs, browned edges.
One last container with something creamy and pale that makes my mouth water despite myself.
Pasta.
Not fancy. Just pasta in a light cream sauce with peas and little bits of pancetta, the kind of thing that tastes like someone who cares made it.
And then a smaller container with antipasti: a few slices of salami, marinated artichokes, olives, and roasted red peppers. Simple. Comforting.
Nothing over the top.
Just food you eat when you’ve been through something.
And despite myself, my appetite has started to come back after a couple of bites of bread.
Damn him. Does he have to be right every single time?
Can I be rightonce?
He sits, not across from me, but on the side closest to me.
I take another annoyed bite of bread.
“Don’t take it out on the bread,” he says, not even looking at me. “It’s not the one who fights me every step of the way.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. I’m beginning to think he really can read minds. Or maybe he’s a time traveler.
He holds a fork out to me and nudges a plate of the eggplant parm toward me.
My apprehension over putting real food in my stomach comes back.
When I don’t take the fork, Nico scoops a bite up and brings it to my mouth. The cheese stretches in a way that should feel indulgent and comforting, but just makes me feel sicker.
But he’s not giving up, so I hesitantly open my lips, and he slips the fork in.
The first taste hits and my body reacts like I’ve been punishing it and have just allowed it its first taste of freedom. Warm. Salty. Tomato bright. Eggplant soft with a crisp edge.
My stomach flips again, but it doesn’t reject it.
I chew carefully and swallow.
Nico is ready with another bite.
“Slowly now,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to make yourself sick.”
Something loosens in my chest at his words. It’s not something I would’ve ever expected from him.
Any of it. Feeding me, holding me, caring for me. Even the first night, bathing me, massaging my aches, icing my pains. I knowhe said it’s part of the territory—his responsibility—but it seems like he’s gone above and beyond responsibility at this point, and it’s confusing me.
I reach for the fork, suddenly feeling awkward about him feeding me.
Nico watches me eat, like he’s supervising me, which makes me feel both warm and stupid.
After a few bites, he speaks again.
