Chapter 21
REID
The outing punished Noah for every minute he had enjoyed it.
By the time I got him upstairs, pain had narrowed his world to darkness, stillness, and keeping one eye closed. He went directly to the couch, lowered the shades until the harbor disappeared behind gray fabric, and curled on his right side beneath the knitted blanket.
Marlowe pressed against his shins as though his old body could contain the pain for him.
I brought water and the as-needed medication Maeve had told us to use on days like this.
The television remained dark.
Even the weak evening light leaking around the shades seemed too sharp.
“Would the bedroom be quieter?” I asked.
“No.”
“A cold cloth?”
He swallowed the tablets, then let his head sink back against the cushion. “Maybe.”
I dampened a cloth beneath the kitchen tap, wrung out the excess, and laid it carefully across his forehead.
His right hand closed around my wrist before I could withdraw.
“Stay.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Here.”
The word came out rough and small.
I lowered myself to the floor beside the couch.
Noah kept his fingers around my wrist. His grip was not strong, but it remained deliberate, as if he needed the proof of my pulse beneath his thumb.
The word we had given each other that morning had not softened his headache.
It had not repaired his memory or restored the strength the accident had taken.
Partner.
The pain remained.
The fatigue remained.
But the silence between us no longer felt undefined.
Noah slept for two hours.
I folded laundry on the floor, answered emails with my laptop balanced on one knee, and put a stew in the oven. I moved through every task as quietly as possible, listening to the rhythm of his breathing beneath the hum of the refrigerator and the muted creaks of the old apartment.
Once, Marlowe shifted.
Noah’s hand moved blindly across the edge of the couch until his fingers found my sleeve.
I moved closer.
The tension in his hand released.
When he woke, darkness had gathered beyond the windows.
He blinked at the dim apartment, disoriented.
“Where?”
“Home.”
His gaze searched until it found me.
“Partner.”
Sleep blurred the word.
“Yes.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Didn’t imagine it.”
“No.”
He pushed himself upright in slow stages.
The cold cloth slipped into his lap.
“How’s your head?”
“Still inconveniently attached.”
“Pain level?”
“Two. Maybe three.”
“Hungry?”
He considered the question with solemn concentration.
“I can smell dinner.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
I brought him a small bowl of stew and sat beside him while he ate enough to take the next dose of medication.
At seven, the baseball game began.
I lowered the brightness until the players looked as though they were competing during an eclipse and kept the volume barely above silence.
Noah settled against me with his shoulder tucked beneath my arm. Marlowe sprawled across our feet and released the sort of sigh that suggested we had inconvenienced him personally.
It should have been an uncomplicated evening.
A game neither of us cared enough about to argue over.
Warm food.
Rain ticking softly against the windows.
Noah in my arms.
But he could not settle.
He watched me when he thought I was looking at the screen. He worried his lower lip between his teeth. Twice, he opened the memory journal on his lap, stared at the empty page, and closed it again.
In the fifth inning, I muted the television.
“What is it?”
He continued looking at the frozen batter on the screen. “What is what?”
“You’ve been trying to ask me something for an hour.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s unfair.”
“How?”
“You know all my tells.”
“Not all of them.”
“You know when I’m tired. You know when I’m lying. You know when I’m angry, hungry, in pain, or about to lose a word.”
“Not every time.”
“Most of them.”
I waited.
He set the empty bowl on the coffee table.
“Leah said something yesterday.”
I already knew.
She had sent me an apologetic message that afternoon, saying she had made a joke without thinking and feared she had hurt him.
I did not tell Noah that.
The conversation belonged to him.
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether sleeping with you felt new.”
His cheeks warmed.
“She meant sex.”
“I assumed she did.”
“She thought it was funny.”
“She felt terrible afterward.”
His head turned. “You talked to her?”
“She texted.”
Noah nodded and looked toward the dark window.
“I didn’t know what to tell her.”
“You didn’t owe her an answer.”
“I don’t have one.”
I shifted toward him. “Noah.”
“I’ve been thinking about sex since we talked.”
“All right.”
“I’ve been thinking about wanting to think about it.”
“That may be the most neurologically accurate sentence you’ve ever spoken.”
He gave me a tired glare.
I let the humor go.
He looked down at his hands.
“I know my body responds to you.”
“Yes.”
“I like kissing you.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
“I liked touching you the other night.”
My pulse kicked hard.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“But I don’t wake up wanting sex,” he continued.
“That is not something you are required to do.”
“I used to.”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“You told me you did not want unnecessary comparisons.”
“I’m asking now.”
I took a breath.
“Most days.”
His eyebrows rose.
“That seems excessive.”
“You had considerable enthusiasm.”
“I barely have enough enthusiasm to shower.”
“Which is one of many reasons comparison is useless.”
His mouth tightened.
“What if this part never comes back?”
“Then it doesn’t.”
Frustration sharpened his expression.
“You say that like it would cost nothing.”
“It would cost something.”
He looked at me quickly.
I continued before honesty could become pressure in his mind.
“I would miss sex. I would miss how completely we knew each other physically. I would miss touching you without having to consider whether every movement might frighten you. There would be days when I felt frustrated.”
His face tightened.
“But none of that would make you responsible for giving me access to your body.”
His gaze dropped.
“I don’t want you pretending it wouldn’t matter.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You would still stay.”
“Yes.”
“If we only kissed.”
“Yes.”
“For years.”
“Yes.”
“How can you know?”
“Because I came close to losing every possible future with you.”
I touched the back of his hand.
“I understand the difference between grieving one part of our relationship and losing the person the entire relationship was built around.”
His throat moved.
“I want to want it.”
“You may.”
“What if I’m afraid when I do?”
“Then we move at the speed of the fear. Not one step ahead of it.”
He studied me.
“That sounds suspiciously wise.”
“I stole it from Maeve.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“What were we like?” he asked.
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
I considered the answer.
Every memory I gave him carried the risk of becoming an assignment.
“Affectionate.”
His mouth twisted. “That is evasive.”
“We touched constantly. In the kitchen. In doorways. On boats. In the grocery store when no one could see.”
“Did I start things?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Was I shy?”
“Afterward, sometimes.”
“Before?”
“Rarely.”
Color rose over his cheekbones.
“What did I like?”
“We discussed boundaries before trying anything new.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the most important part of the answer.”
“Cal.”
The private name came in the low tone that had always tested the limits of my restraint.
I breathed out.
“You liked being held firmly.”
His gaze rose to mine.
“You liked knowing I could overpower you and never would unless you had specifically asked for the illusion of it.”
A flush spread down his throat.
“You liked giving me control after we agreed exactly where that control ended.”
His breathing changed.
“And?”
“You liked making me lose mine.”
His attention dropped to my mouth.
“Did I?”
“Regularly.”
“How?”
“Not tonight.”
A smile flickered.
“Why not?”
“Because ten minutes ago your headache was a three.”
“It’s a two now.”
“No.”
His body angled toward me.
“That sounded controlling.”
“It was caution.”
“Did I argue this much before?”
“More.”
“Did it work?”
“Occasionally.”
Noah kissed me.
The movement was deliberate.
Not a challenge thrown carelessly into the air.
A choice.
I let him set the pace.
His fingertips moved through my beard before sliding around the back of my neck. His mouth touched mine with soft uncertainty, then warmed as recognition of the act replaced the fear of it.
I kept my hands at his sides.
Nothing lower.
Nothing assumed.
He kissed me again.
Longer.
The blanket slipped from his lap, and his thigh pressed against mine.
Desire rose through me, hard and immediate.
I did not attempt to hide the physical truth of it, but neither did I move against him.
Noah deepened the kiss.
His tongue touched mine.
The small sound that left him went directly through me.
Then he stopped.
His forehead rested against my cheek.
“You’re hard.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes.”
“Does that happen every time I kiss you?”
“Nearly.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
“Profoundly.”
His lips curved against my skin.
“Can I sit on you?”
My pulse struck hard.
“Why?”
“To kiss you.”
“You are currently kissing me.”
“I want to know what it feels like closer.”
I looked at him.
Curiosity and nervousness showed in his gaze.
Beneath both, desire had begun to burn.
“You stop the moment it feels wrong.”
“I know.”
“And I stop if you become dizzy, tired, or hurt.”
“That condition gives you too much authority.”
“It is the only condition under which I agree.”
He considered, then nodded.
Noah braced his right hand on my shoulder and shifted carefully. His healing hip would not allow him to straddle me fully, so he eased one knee across my lap and settled sideways against me.
I guided the movement without pulling.
Even through our clothing, the warmth of him nearly destroyed my discipline.
His arm curved around my shoulders.
“Comfortable?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Hip?”
“Fine.”
“Head?”
“Quiet.”
I placed my hands at his waist.
Noah leaned down.
The kiss changed the moment his mouth met mine.