Page 122 of The Viper's Wife

“I tried to go in after you.” He squeezes my shoulders. “I felt like I was going insane.”

I don’t trust myself to speak for a moment.

Is there anyone else in my life who would go into a burning house to save me?

Lacey, maybe.

And now Nico has risked his life twice for mine.

I bury my face into his chest, and inhale the smell of smoke, medicinal cream, and that third layer of scent that is uniquely him and feels more like home with each passing day.

“I’m here. I’m okay,” I tell him, and eventually, we both pass into a fitful sleep.

I only leaveNico’s side for the next few days to go to the bathroom and bring him water.

He laughs when I tell him his credit cards aren’t working.

He tells me it’s a good thing I made him bring me more cash. We have plenty to get by.

We watch scary movies to pass the time. Nico winces every time I jump, but he never complains and only holds me tighter.

He likes to talk while we watch, commenting on the video effects used or gossiping about certain actors.

I like it. I like hearing his thoughts.

On the third day, a man I don’t recognize, with heavy facial scarring, comes by the apartment to give me a phone for Nico. I want to hurl it out of the apartment windows.

Nico laughs dryly and slides it into his pocket when I bring it to him.

On the fourth day, we take a long, slow walk to the parking deck, so we can meet Dr. Macaluso at his practice and get Nico scanned. He has a fractured rib.

On the fifth day, sick of the box of ramen noodles I got for us, Nico sits himself down at the kitchen table and tells me he’s going to show me how to make pasta.

“I’m really not a good cook. I burn water.”

Nico smiles. “I’m an excellent cook. We’ll meet in the middle.”

I can feel his eyes on me as he guides me through the formation of the dough, like this version of myself—unshowered, no makeup, and in the same pair of sweatpants I wore all week—is the most interesting thing in the world.

I bring the plates of freshly cooked pasta to the kitchen table and take my first bite—they’re chewy and too salty, tasting like kid’s playdough.

But Nico throws his head back and groans. “Oh my God, Valeria. This is absolutely perfect.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re just saying that because we’ve been eating ramen noodles for the past week.”

“No,” he says, a mischievous glint to his eye. “I’m sayingit because I can taste all the love you put into it. The noodles don’t lie.”

I don’t say anything to that, but they do taste a little better on the second bite.

On the sixth day, I show him how to make a collage. It’s strangely attractive to see his face fixed in concentration as he carves out a tiny scrap of paper with the tip of his blade.

When he’s done, he pushes the paper to me.

One of the things I love about collage is that there’s no wrong way to do it. You take scraps and trash and you let yourself be guided by your heart to make something unique and beautiful, a snapshot of yourself in a certain place and time.

I bite into my bottom lip.

“What?” Nico asks. “It’s good, right?”