He sets the bag on the kitchen counter, and I sigh.
"...But I promise I'm impressed by your dedication to the sugar food group."
I peek through my fingers to glare at him.
"I told you not to say anything,” I grumble before letting out a long, heavy sigh. “What do you want, Matteo?"
"I wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"She says, while sitting in a nest of ice cream and chocolate wrappers."
"Comfort food. It's a perfectly valid coping mechanism."
His smirk softens.
"Rough day?"
"Something like that," I mutter, sinking onto the sofa. I gesture vaguely at the chair across from me. "Since you're here, you might as well sit down."
He takes the seat, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me.
"Want to talk about it?"
I shake my head. I don't trust myself not to blurt out the whole humiliating encounter with Mark.
"Okay," he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Then how about I distract you? I brought pizza."
He gestures to the bag on the counter.
Despite myself, I smile.
"Oh. I… You didn’t have to do that."
"I had a feeling you'd need carbs."
The tension eases just a little, but as I glance toward my laptop on the armrest, the memory of Mark's voice echoes in my head.
Footballer or editor?
The smile slips from my face.
Matteo notices.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "I’m just...tired."
He doesn't look convinced, and I watch his side-profile as his jaw tightens and his eyes darken with that intensity I’ve come to recognise.
"Something happened at work," he says. "I can tell."
"It's nothing," I insist, fiddling with the hem of my oversized shirt.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Daphne,” he says, waiting until I look him right in the eyes before he continues. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out."