“Thank you,” I said quickly, offering a small smile.
Still, something tightened in my chest. I’d assumed I’d be able to come and go, walk into town if I needed to. But maybe that wasn’t how this worked.
I lowered the bag of fries from my head and held it out again. “You can put this back. I’m okay. Really.”
He frowned. “No, keep it on. It’ll help with the swelling.”
I didn’t want to argue, mostly because he was right, and because arguing over frozen fries felt ridiculous when my mind was spiraling somewhere else entirely.
I’d almost gotten into that room. Almost found something useful. And just like that, the door had opened and reminded me exactly where I stood.
They’d given me a room, fed me, treated me like a guest.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t being watched here too.
Nico suddenly snapped his fingers. “Hey! It’s past lunch. Have you eaten?”
I blinked, dragged back into the present. I shook my head.
He brightened. “We’ve got leftover rotisserie chicken. And—” he glanced at the bag in my hands and grinned faintly, “these fries are already halfway there.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
“Yeah,” I said, a little sheepish. “That sounds good.”
Nico stood and started pulling containers out of the fridge. I watched him for a second before pushing myself up from the chair. The bump on my head throbbed faintly, but it was manageable now.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
He glanced at me, surprised. “Oh. Yeah. Could you make a salad? I think there’s some stuff in the fridge you can use.”
I nodded. Helping felt easier than sitting around doing nothing. I stepped up to the fridge and opened it.
The top shelf was full of takeout boxes. He probably didn’t mean those, so I crouched and pulled open the vegetable drawer.
Inside was a bag of shredded cabbage that looked tired, limp at the edges, and just slightly translucent in a way that definitely didn’t seem ideal.
Next to it was a pack of baby carrots. Several had gone wrinkled and spotted brown.
I lifted both items out slowly. I must’ve made a face, because Nico leaned over my shoulder to see what I was looking at and burst out laughing.
“They’re fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Just give them a good wash and pick out the browning bits.”
I stared at the carrots. There were a lot of browning bits.
“Do you mind if I make a stir-fry instead?” I asked. “It’ll be quick.”
And taste significantly better, I added silently.
Nico blinked at me. “Really? You’re going to cook?”
“Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“Sure!” His face lit up in a way that felt almost tragic.
He dropped the bag of rotisserie chicken he’d been holding and crouched to pull out a frying pan from a lower cabinet, handing it to me like he’d just discovered treasure.
I took it and paused. There was still a cardboard tag looped around the handle.
