Page 259 of Nico

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.