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“No fruit?”I say teasingly, when he hands me a plate of eggs.
He arches a brow and walks over to the fridge, pulling out a container of pineapple spears.
My eyes widen, and I wince, my already sore ass clenching at the thought of him doing a repeat of the strawberry. Pretty sure pineapple wouldn’t feel so good.
Nolan coughs, covering up a laugh. “Jesus, your face. These are to eat.”
“Oh.”
Shaking his head, he levels me with an amused look before turning to flip on the stove. Using the same pan he cooked my bacon in, he lets it heat while he chops up the spears into bite-sized pieces.
Forking some more egg, I chew slowly, watching him curiously.
After a few minutes, he turns off the burner, and brings the pan over, scooping the pineapple onto my plate, steam wafting up into the air.
Sucking in my cheek, I stab a fork in it and bring it to my lips, blowing on it. I take a testing nibble, and sigh. Sweet, but not overly sweet. Definitely not sour, now that it’s been grilled. Nor is it as chewy as it would be raw. It practically melts in my mouth.
“Good?” he murmurs.
I nod, swallowing the fruit. I smile. “Thanks.”
He smiles and pinches a piece for himself, grinning as he chews.
After a long moment, I find myself saying, “It’s the unpredictability, you know? It’s why a lot of kids—the picky eaters in particular—prefer junk food. Especially the store-bought, processed stuff. A chip is always a chip. A cookie a cookie. But a fruit can change—texture, sweetness, tartness…”
He’s nodding, telling me he’s listening.
I swallow, self-conscious suddenly. “I…didn’t grow out of it. And it’s not just food for me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s paying close attention, giving me the space to find the words even though he already knows some of this.
“It can change at the drop of a hat. One second, I’m comfortable, and the next I’m crawling out of my skin because my shirt’s suddenly chafing.”
“Like the gloves thing.”
I nod. “Usually the tighter the clothes fit, the less likely it is to bother me.”
He smirks. “So, like your Lola’s uniform. And those skinny jeans.”
“Exactly.”
He inhales deeply through his nose, and nods on his exhale.
“Growing up, no one ever tried to….accommodate my needs. They thought I was just being melodramatic or picky or…whatever. They didn’t see that it’s like…a physical thing for me. Not just my sensitivities to food and textures and clothes, but to, like…routines too and stuff.”
Nolan comes around the island and sits on the stool next to me. We turn toward each other, and he takes my hand, stilling my tapping.
He frowns down at my fingers clenching his. “Should I not…stop you when you do this? Stimming.”
My eyes widen.
He shrugs. “I may or may not have done some research.”
“When?”
He blows out a breath, a wary look creasing his eyes. “Three years ago. Abby’s one of those picky eaters.” He chuckles dryly. “I was looking up ways to combat it, and I…”
