“You’re fussing again, Leo. You’ve cut that toast into squares.”

I blink at the tray he’s holding—gold-rimmed porcelain, scrambled eggs, and fruit slices arranged like he’s prepping for a royal photo shoot. And the toast? Yeah. Neatly trimmed, no crusts. Piled in soft squares like I’m a preschooler.

He clears his throat as he balances the tray like it’s glass. “You need food. Real food, not that dry oat cracker thing I saw you nibbling last night.”

“I was nauseous.”

“Exactly.”

He walks into the guest room like it’s his life mission then places the tray on my lap. His eyes scan my face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s...