Chapter 10 #3
“You used to turn off the television and listen.”
His eyes went to the dark glass.
“Did we lose power often?”
“Twice a winter.”
“The green lamp stays on.”
“Yes.”
He nodded as though confirming something privately.
After dinner, he insisted on helping clear the table.
I allowed him to carry the empty wrappers on his lap while I took the plates. He guided the chair into the kitchen and opened the wrong cabinet twice before finding the trash can.
“Why is it under the sink?” he asked.
“Where else would it be?”
“Near the door.”
“That is not a normal place.”
“It is if you don’t enjoy carrying rubbish through the kitchen.”
“This was your design.”
“Then I disagree with my past self.”
“You often did.”
He found the drawer containing dishcloths without help.
His hand stopped on the handle.
“Did I know that?”
“I didn’t tell you.”
A smile rose slowly.
He opened it.
“Dishcloths.”
“And batteries.”
He looked inside.
“And seven screwdrivers.”
“You kept putting them there.”
“Efficient.”
“Unacceptable.”
His smile widened.
The evening offered these tiny discoveries and refused to explain them.
He knew which window stuck.
He reached automatically for the switch that controlled the light above the stove.
He opened the correct side of the wardrobe when he wanted a clean shirt.
None became a complete memory.
Each made him brighter for a moment and sadder afterward.
At nine, he struggled to keep his eye open.
“Bed,” I said.
“No.”
“You fell asleep during a documentary about shipwrecks.”
“It was soothing.”
“The narrator was describing hypothermia.”
“Lovely voice.”
I brought the chair beside the couch.
Noah stared at it.
“Everything takes so much planning.”
“I know.”
“I can’t just stand.”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t carry my own drink and move at the same time.”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t even get into bed without someone waiting for me to fail.”
The last word sharpened.
“I’m not waiting for you to fail.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m waiting in case you need support.”
“It feels the same.”
I crouched in front of him.
“What would make it feel different?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what you don’t want.”
He looked away.
“Don’t praise me every time I stand.”
“All right.”
“Don’t hold me before I ask.”
“All right.”
“Don’t look scared.”
“That one may be difficult.”
“Try.”
“I will.”
He breathed out.
“And don’t call the therapist if I swear.”
“I would spend my entire life on the phone.”
His mouth twitched.
“Ready?”
“No.”
I waited.
After several breaths, he held out his hand.
“Now.”
I helped him stand.
No praise.
No reassuring commentary.
My hand stayed near his waist without touching.
Noah balanced, shifted, and lowered himself into the chair.
When he settled, he looked at me.
“Thank you.”
“You did the work.”
“That sounded like praise.”
“It was a factual division of labor.”
He rolled his eyes.
At the bedroom, I pulled back the covers.
Noah transferred onto the mattress and lifted his legs with only a small amount of help. Marlowe waited near the door until Noah patted the bed.
The dog jumped up with unexpected athleticism and circled twice near the foot.
“He remembered where he sleeps,” Noah murmured.
“Yes.”
I arranged the medication and water on the bedside table.
“The bathroom light stays on. My door will be open. Your phone is here. Press my name and it calls me.”
“You’re fifteen feet away.”
“I appreciate redundancy.”
He looked toward the opposite side of the bed.
“You took your pillow.”
“Yes.”
“Bring it back.”
My pulse stumbled.
“Noah.”
“I’m not asking you to sleep here.”
“All right.”
“The room looks wrong with one pillow.”
There were still two, but he meant mine. The firmer one with the blue case.
I went to the spare room and brought it back.
He pointed to my side.
I set it down.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
I pulled the blanket over him.
Marlowe rested his head across Noah’s ankles.
“Will that hurt?”
“No.”
“Call me if it does.”
“I know.”
I remained beside the bed.
Noah’s eye grew heavy.
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“Did you kiss me good night?”
“Every night.”
His throat moved.
“Even when we fought?”
“Especially then.”
“Why?”
“Because anger wasn’t allowed to become uncertainty.”
He absorbed that.
“Did I kiss you?”
“Usually first.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
I kept both hands at my sides.
“Good night, Noah.”
“Night.”
I turned toward the door.
“Reid.”
I stopped.
He looked almost embarrassed.
“Could you…”
He frowned, searching for the request.
I waited.
“Just here.”
He touched his forehead.
My heart tightened.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I bent slowly.
My lips touched the center of his brow, below the edge of the healing scar.
The kiss was light.
Brief.
Noah exhaled beneath it.
When I straightened, his eye remained closed.
“Good night,” he whispered.
I left before hope could make me reckless.
Downstairs, Caleb and Owen had gone home. The yard sat silent beneath security lights. I spent an hour checking invoices and another pretending to check them while replaying the feel of Noah’s skin beneath my mouth.
At eleven, I returned upstairs.
His bedroom door remained open.
Noah slept on his right side, facing my empty pillow.