Page 139 of Diego

“Yes. Pepperoni on pizza. Is there a problem with that? Is that against old Italian tradition or something?”

“I'm merely observing.”

I narrow my eyes. “You sure are doing a lot of observing tonight.”

He glances back at me. “I can't observe?”

“Not judgmentally, you can't,” I say, then I move past him and return to the couch, mostly because I am tired of standing. “If you have a problem with the pizza, you can leave.”

“I don’t have a problem with the pizza.”

“It sure seems like you do.”

“I don't.”

He sits at the other end of the couch without asking, completely at ease in my apartment in a way I have not managed to achieve since he walked through the door.

I look at him, a bit resentfully.

He looks at the pizza.

“You want some?” I ask reluctantly.

“Yes.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“You offered.”

I gesture toward it, and he takes a slice.

After a bite, he nods. “Acceptable.”

I stare at him. “So now you're rating my dinner?”

He takes another bite. “Seven out of ten.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

His eyes brighten immediately.

“Careful.”

I grab my own slice and point it at him. “Cool it.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and despite myself, some of the tension drains from my shoulders.

Only some.

Because he is still here. In my apartment. At night.

And I have no idea why.

I set my pizza down.

“Anyway, what do you want?” I grab my bottle of water. “Or did you just come over to criticize my food choices, then eat my dinner?”

He looks at me. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. I came to check on you.”