Chapter 8 #3
Leah with the girls.
Then me.
Again.
And again.
There were more photographs of me than I remembered him taking.
Me cooking at the stove.
Me reading on the sofa with Marlowe’s head across my thigh.
Me asleep in the passenger seat.
Me frowning at an invoice.
Me standing shirtless on the deck of a boat with sunlight across my shoulders and the first pink of sunburn along my back.
Noah stopped.
I cleared my throat. “You took that without permission.”
“You’re looking directly at the camera.”
“I was objecting.”
“You appear relaxed.”
“I was worn down.”
His cheeks deepened in color.
He moved to the next image.
My hand was spread across his bare back beneath disordered white sheets.
Only part of Noah’s face showed against the pillow. His eyes were closed. His mouth was soft, his hair untidy, his skin warm with morning light. The photograph revealed almost nothing and somehow exposed more than nudity would have.
I remembered that morning.
The room full of pale sun.
His body loose and satisfied beneath my palm.
The slow, private smile he had given me before setting the timer.
The memory struck so sharply that I had to force air into my lungs.
Noah stared at the image.
“I took this?”
“You set the timer.”
“Why?”
“You liked the way the light fell across the bed.”
His gaze lifted to mine. “What had we been doing?”
My body remembered before I could stop it.
Heat gathered low in my abdomen. My hands tightened against my knees.
I kept my voice controlled.
“We spent the morning in bed.”
“Sleeping?”
“No.”
His attention returned to the screen.
“Was I embarrassed?”
“Sometimes.”
“By you?”
“Rarely.”
His thumb rested at the edge of the photograph.
“Did I like you touching me?”
“Yes.”
The single word roughened in my throat.
“How?”
Every muscle in my body locked.
Noah noticed.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You are allowed to ask.”
“You don’t want to tell me.”
“I want to tell you without making this feel like a promise you’re expected to fulfill.”
His expression changed.
“I don’t owe you that.”
“No.”
“Even if I used to want it.”
“Especially then.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“Were we careful with each other?”
“Yes.”
“Gentle?”
“Most of the time.”
“And the rest?”
“We talked first. We trusted each other. We paid attention. If either of us hesitated, we stopped.”
His breathing had become shallower.
“Who decided what happened?”
“It depended.”
He gave me a skeptical look.
“Did it?”
“You enjoyed challenging me until I took control.”
Color swept across his throat.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You never had to do anything you didn’t want. You only liked discovering how much you wanted.”
The air changed.
Not into memory.
Into awareness.
His gaze dropped to my hands.
I kept them still against my knees, though every instinct in me wanted to reach for him.
“Did you touch me everywhere?” he asked.
The words were barely audible.
My pulse struck hard.
“Yes.”
His lips parted.
“Did I let you?”
“You asked me to.”
A flush spread over his skin.
“Was I quiet?”
A helpless sound almost escaped me.
“No.”
His eye darkened.
“What did I sound like?”
“Noah.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
I held his gaze.
“You said my name when you wanted more. You swore when I made you wait. You laughed when we lost our balance. Sometimes you tried to stay silent because Caleb was downstairs, and sometimes you seemed determined to make sure he heard enough to complain.”
Noah’s breath caught.
I continued before restraint failed me.
“You liked being kissed slowly until you stopped pretending you weren’t impatient. You liked my mouth at your throat. My hands on your hips. You liked knowing I was paying attention to every breath you took.”
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“And you?”
The question came rough.
“What did you like?”
“You.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It was always the answer.”
His gaze lifted fully to mine.
The distance between us felt indecently small, though I had not moved.
“I liked the way you looked at me when you trusted me,” I said. “I liked how bold you became when you knew you were safe. I liked that you could make me lose control and still make me feel more in control of myself than I had ever been.”
A tremor passed through his hand.
I forced my voice lower.
“I liked making you feel wanted.”
“Did I?”
“Did you what?”
“Feel wanted.”
My chest tightened.
“You never had reason to doubt it.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Noah swallowed.
“Did I want you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I should have chosen a careful answer.
I did not.
“Enough that we sometimes locked the office door during lunch.”
His inhalation was sharp.
Regret followed immediately.
“Noah—”
“No. Don’t retreat.”
His eye remained on mine.
“I’m all right.”
“You’re flushed.”
“So are you.”
I said nothing.
He looked down at the photograph.
“I’m trying to understand the man in these messages.”
“You.”
“The man who knew you.”
“He was still you.”
“He felt things I don’t remember feeling.”
“That does not make him more real than you are now.”
Noah closed the gallery.
“I still know what I’m attracted to.”
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“That is common. Skills, tastes, desire—those can remain even when personal memory is disrupted.”
“Dr. Whitcomb told me.”
He looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“Apparently I still like broad shoulders and men who become stern when they’re frightened.”
My pulse stumbled.
“Was that also in Dr. Whitcomb’s explanation?”
“No.”
A smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.
Noah saw.
“Do not make this significant.”
“I would never.”
“You are making it significant right now.”
“I am sitting silently.”
“You’re doing it smugly.”
The banter loosened something between us, but the heat beneath it remained.
Noah returned to the photographs.
The apartment appeared in pieces.
The kitchen with its mismatched cabinets.
The narrow hallway.
The living room windows overlooking the harbor.
Our bedroom beneath a rain-washed morning sky.
The old green navigation lamp on the landing.
Noah stopped.
“There.”
I leaned closer without touching him. “What?”
“The lamp.”
I looked at the photograph.
The brass fixture held thick green glass, clouded by age. The hallway appeared as a dark reflection in it.
“That is the one from your dream,” I said.
“Yes.”
He enlarged the image.
His breathing changed.
“I know this.”
Hope surged so fiercely I almost leaned into it.
Instead, I kept my voice calm.
“Do you know where it is?”
He shut his eye.
“Near wood.”
“The stair landing.”
“There’s someone behind me.”
His breath shortened.
“Don’t push.”
“I’m not.”
He pressed two fingers to his temple.
“It’s close.”
“What is?”
“Something.”
The word emerged strained and indistinct.
“Stop.”
His eye opened, bright with anger.
“I can almost reach it.”
“And forcing it will not make it safer.”
“You don’t know.”
“No.”
I stood.
“But I know your speech is slowing. Your eyelid is dropping. You need rest.”
“I hate that you notice everything.”
“I hate that you are hurting.”
He locked the phone and set it on his lap.
“What if the apartment feels like these pictures?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I’m walking into another man’s life.”
“It might.”
His face tightened at my honesty.
“What will you do?”
“Show you where the bathroom is.”
“That’s all?”
“Then the cups. The medication. The light switches. The safest way through the hallway. Anything else you ask me to show you.”
“And if I don’t want to stay?”
“I will call Dr. Whitcomb. We will arrange another option.”
His expression closed.
“You’d let me leave.”
It was not the question he had asked before.
Not in that voice.
“I will not keep you somewhere against your will.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I sat again.
“What are you asking?”
He stared down at the phone.
“I don’t know.”
The answer thinned at the edges.
His throat moved.
“I need you to want me there without using that want to trap me.”
Pain spread through my chest.
“I want you there so much I can barely think around it.”
He looked up.
“But staying has to remain your choice,” I said. “Every day. Every hour, if that is what you need.”
Silence filled the room.
Noah’s eyelids lowered.
“Tomorrow.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He did not call the apartment home.
I did not ask him to.
“Try to sleep,” I said.
His right hand moved across the bed.
I took it.
He closed his eye.
“Will you come early?”
“Before breakfast.”
“Bring coffee.”
“Of course.”
“And the gray sweater.”
“The soft one?”
“Yes.”
“You used to hate that sweater.”
“I like it now.”
“Then it belongs to you.”
His mouth curved.
“It already belonged to me.”
“You’re learning.”
He fell asleep with the phone resting over the photograph of our bedroom and his fingers curled securely around mine.