Chapter 10
REID
I woke with one cheek pressed to the floorboards and no feeling in my right arm.
For several confused seconds, I listened to the old building breathe around me. Water nudged the pilings beneath the yard. A halyard struck a mast outside in an irregular metallic rhythm. Somewhere close, an animal made a low, satisfied rumble.
Then pain climbed from my shoulder into my neck.
I opened my eyes.
The green navigation lamp glowed in the hallway. Evening had darkened the harbor windows, turning the living room glass into a reflection of the couch, the armchair, and my own undignified body sprawled across the floor.
“You look comfortable.”
Noah’s voice was rough with sleep.
I rolled onto my back and found him watching me from the couch.
Marlowe had somehow arranged all seventy pounds of himself across Noah’s lap and chest. The dog’s head rested beneath Noah’s chin, his eyes closed, his tail giving an occasional lazy thump against the cushions.
Noah had one hand buried in the fur behind Marlowe’s ear.
“He climbed up by himself,” he said.
“That is an outrageous lie. He hasn’t climbed anything voluntarily since 2023.”
Noah’s mouth curved.
“He knew where to find me.”
The pleasure in his voice was quiet and almost shy.
I pushed myself upright, wincing when my neck protested.
“Marlowe knows three things with certainty. Dinner time. The location of every unattended sandwich. And you.”
The dog opened one eye at the sound of his name, decided I had nothing worth offering, and closed it again.
Noah looked down at him.
“I called him old man.”
“You always did.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“I know.”
Something moved behind Noah’s expression. Wonder, followed too quickly by frustration.
The memories that returned as knowledge were beginning to torment him almost as much as the memories that did not return at all.
A name arriving without an image. A habit without history.
The certainty that I sang too early, though he could not remember a single drive during which he had mocked me for it.
He stroked Marlowe’s ear.
“It feels like finding things in my pockets that someone else put there.”
I got to my feet slowly.
“Do you want them to stop?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
Then softer, “I just want to know where they came from.”
I stood beside the couch.
“Maybe that part follows later.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then the things are still yours.”
He looked at me for a moment, then turned his attention back to the dog.
I resisted the urge to bend and kiss the top of his head.
Touch had become a landscape I crossed only with invitation. Noah reached for my hand now. He leaned against me when pain exhausted him. He had touched my hair while I sat on the floor.
None of that restored what had existed before.
It was new trust, newly offered.
I would not spend it carelessly.
“What time is it?” he asked.
I checked the clock above the kitchen doorway.
“Nearly seven.”
“You slept two hours.”
“So did you.”
“I used furniture.”
“I was providing emotional support from a lower elevation.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
Marlowe raised his head.
Noah looked at the dog. “He disagrees.”
“Marlowe has no credibility.”
The dog yawned into Noah’s face.
Noah recoiled, laughing. “His breath is criminal.”
“Now that he has you back, he’ll expect you to brush his teeth again.”
“I did that?”
“Every Sunday.”
“Why?”
“You said periodontal disease was preventable.”
He stared at me.
“You’re making that up.”
“I wish I were.”
Marlowe shifted, pressing a paw dangerously close to Noah’s injured hip.
I stepped closer.
“Let’s get him down before he rearranges your pelvis.”
Noah nodded.
I took Marlowe by the collar and guided him to the floor. The dog objected with a deep groan, then settled at Noah’s feet.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Hungry.”
The answer pleased me more than it should have.
“What sounds good?”
“Anything that doesn’t arrive under a plastic dome.”
“I can cook.”
Noah’s eyebrows lifted.
“You say that like it’s reassuring.”
“It should be.”
“What were we eating in the messages? Half of them sounded like takeout.”
“That was evidence of a demanding work schedule.”
“That was evidence of a man who owns three frying pans and fears all of them.”
I laughed.
The expression on his face sharpened with satisfaction, as though making me laugh had become a task he intended to master.
“There’s chowder,” I said. “I made it yesterday.”
“Did you?”
“Caleb’s mother made it.”
“That explains your confidence.”
“Or we could order something.”
Noah considered.
“Burgers.”
“From Harborside Grill?”
“Do I like it?”
“You used to.”
His gaze tightened.
I corrected myself. “They make a good burger. You can decide whether you like it now.”
“Do they have onion rings?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ve decided.”
I took out my phone.
Noah watched while I ordered.
“People do everything through those now,” he said.
“Mostly.”
“I found an application that turns the lights on.”
“You insisted we install it.”
“Why?”
“You liked turning them off from bed.”
“That sounds lazy.”
“It was romantic when you did it.”
“How?”
“You would turn off every light except the green one in the hall.”
His eyes moved toward the glow beyond the living room.
“And then?”
The question was cautious.
I put down the phone.
“Then you would come back to bed.”
His attention remained on the lamp.
“Did we sleep in the dark?”
“Not always.”
“Because of me?”
“Sometimes you had nightmares in Denver. You slept better with a small light on.”
Noah’s fingers tightened in the blanket.
“I had nightmares then too?”
“Not often by the time you came here.”
“Did you know why?”
“Some of them.”
He looked at me.
I could have told him about the coworker who cornered him outside a bar. About the boyfriend who called affection weakness and used silence as punishment. About the night Noah admitted he had spent years sleeping lightly because he never trusted the man beside him to remain kind.
That history belonged to him.
I would not hand it over while he was tired and vulnerable simply because he asked one broad question.
“You told me when you were ready,” I said. “You can ask again when you feel stronger.”
His expression suggested he understood the boundary even if he disliked it.
“Fair.”
The order confirmation appeared.
“Forty minutes.”
Noah looked toward the hallway.
“I should see the rest of the apartment before I fall asleep again.”
“You can do it tomorrow.”
“I want to do it now.”
His tone carried the stubbornness Caleb and Owen had been waiting to hear.
I looked at the fatigue beneath his eye.
“One room, then we reassess.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Bedroom and bathroom count as one section.”
“That is not how rooms work.”
“It is how negotiation works.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Bathroom first.”
“Agreed.”
I brought the powered chair beside the couch and locked the wheels.
Noah shifted forward.
The movement was smoother than it had been that morning. He placed his left foot carefully, used the couch arm for leverage, and rose while I steadied him at the waist.
For one breath, we stood close.
His chest nearly touched mine.
His hair smelled of hospital shampoo and the salt air that entered through the old windows. The brace beneath his sweater made one side of his body rigid, but the rest of him was warm and alive beneath my hands.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Then returned to my eyes.
Neither of us moved.
“Still no dizziness?” I asked.
“No.”
His voice had lowered.
My palms remained at his waist a second too long.
I stepped back and guided him into the chair.
Noah watched me secure the support beneath his injured arm.
“You always get serious when you touch me.”
The observation caught me unprepared.
“I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“That’s not all.”
I checked the footrest unnecessarily.
“No.”
“What else?”
I met his gaze.
“I remember what touching you used to mean.”
His expression changed.
“And I don’t,” he said.
“I know.”
“That must be strange.”
“It is.”
“Bad strange?”
“Sometimes.”
The honesty settled between us.
Noah looked down at his right hand on the chair control.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I know you keep saying that.”
“I’ll keep saying it until you stop taking responsibility for an injury.”
He nudged the chair forward.
The movement nearly ran over my foot.
“Attempted murder is different,” I said.
“Move faster.”
I led him down the hall.
The bathroom door had been widened before discharge, though only by removing the trim and changing the hinges. A shower chair stood inside the glass enclosure. Grab bars had been installed near the toilet and sink. Towels lay folded within easy reach.
Noah stopped in the doorway.
“You changed this.”
“Yes.”
“The bars are new.”
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
My heart shifted.
“You remember the bathroom?”
“No.”
He frowned at the wall beside the shower.
“There was something there.”
“A wooden shelf.”
“What happened to it?”
“We removed it because the therapist said you might catch your shoulder.”
“I liked it.”
“You complained it was crooked.”
“It was crooked.”
I stared at him.
Noah stared back.
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“Photograph?”
“I don’t think so.”
His face brightened, then immediately tightened as he searched for more.
“Don’t chase it,” I said.
“I hate when you say that.”
“I know.”
“It’s there.”
“Let it come.”
“You make it sound like a frightened animal.”
“Maybe memory is.”
He looked again at the empty wall.
“I can see the shelf, but not the room around it.”
“That’s still something.”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
I leaned against the doorframe.
“No, it isn’t enough.”
He gave me a tired look, perhaps grateful I had not offered another encouraging phrase.
“The toilet is obvious,” he said. “Where are the towels?”
I pointed.
“Medication cabinet?”
“Locked. Everything scheduled is in the kitchen. Backup medication is up high.”
“Because you think I’ll steal painkillers?”
“Because your cognitive therapist wants one controlled location.”
“Do I have a history of stealing painkillers?”
“No.”
“Then you could have led with that.”
“I enjoyed being accused.”
He smiled.
“Do you need the bathroom now?”
“In a minute.”
“You want help?”