Chapter 17 #2
He pressed the blade through the bread.
The first half tore.
He swore.
I said nothing.
He turned the sandwich and tried again.
This cut was cleaner.
He placed both halves on the plate and pushed it toward me.
“There.”
“You made lunch.”
“I cut lunch.”
“An essential stage.”
He gave me a dark look, but some of the tension left his shoulders.
I put the medication beside his glass.
He swallowed the tablets first.
After half the yogurt drink and two bites of sandwich, the color began to return to his face.
I sat across from him.
“I’m sorry I lost track of time.”
“So did I.”
“You have an injured brain.”
“You have a clock.”
“That is fair.”
Noah chewed slowly.
“I didn’t feel hungry.”
“Maeve said that may happen.”
“I felt sick. I thought it was my head.”
“We’ll use a second alarm.”
He frowned.
“On the kitchen speaker. It announces lunch even if your phone is dead.”
“I hate being managed by appliances.”
“You once programmed the coffee machine to insult me if I used it before five.”
His mouth twitched.
“What did it say?”
“Go back to bed, tyrant.”
“That’s good.”
“It stopped being funny the fifth morning.”
“No, it didn’t.”
He ate another bite.
I watched him as discreetly as I could.
He noticed anyway.
“You can go back to work.”
“I can stay.”
“You’re busy.”
“Not too busy.”
“That isn’t what your face says.”
I leaned back.
“What does my face say?”
“That something downstairs is on fire.”
“Nothing is literally on fire.”
“Comforting.”
I considered how much to tell him.
Dr. Whitcomb had said manageable truth. Not concealment. Not a flood.
“We accepted a large ferry maintenance contract.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“Why don’t you look happy?”
“Because the schedule is tight.”
“Because I’m not there.”
“Partly.”
He lowered the sandwich.
I reached across the table.
“Noah, that is not an accusation.”
“You have to cover my work.”
“Caleb and Owen know the vessels. I know the vessels. You are one highly skilled person, not the only person in the county who can test a circuit.”
“I used to lead that contract.”
“Yes.”
“So now you do.”
“Yes.”
“And take care of me.”
“Yes.”
“And fight with insurance.”
“Yes.”
“And sleep four hours.”
“That is an unrelated personal failing.”
His expression did not soften.
“I’m making everything harder.”
“The collision made everything harder.”
“I’m still the reason you come upstairs.”
“You’re the reason I want to.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
I held his gaze.
“It is more important.”
His throat moved.
He looked down at our hands.
“Do you always know how to answer?”
“No.”
“You sound as if you do.”
“I choose words quickly and regret them privately.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“It has served me well.”
He finished half the sandwich, then pushed the plate away.
“That’s enough.”
“For now.”
“I’m not eating grapes.”
“They’re harmless.”
“They roll.”
“A damning quality.”
He took one anyway.
I stood.
“I need to go back down.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be upstairs before six.”
“I know.”
“The speaker will announce food at four.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It will say snack.”
“Worse.”
I took our plates to the sink.
Behind me, the chair motor stopped.
I turned.
Noah had risen.
He stood with one hand braced against the table. His balance looked stable, though his left leg carried most of his weight.
“What do you need?”
He held out his arms as far as his healing left shoulder allowed.
“You.”
The single word stripped every worry from the room.
I crossed to him.
Noah leaned against me before I had fully wrapped my arms around him.
One hand settled at the back of his neck. The other spread across his lower back.
His face fit beneath my jaw.
He smelled like sleep, soap, and the wool blanket from the couch.
I held him carefully at first.
Noah tightened his arm around me.
“More.”
I closed the space.
His body softened.
The pressure of the morning remained—money, contracts, deadlines—but it moved farther away. Not gone. Nothing was gone.
Simply held outside the circle of my arms for a moment.
“I needed this,” I said against his hair.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You looked like you were carrying the whole yard on your back.”
“I usually am.”
“That was not modest.”
“I have many flaws.”
Noah rubbed his right hand slowly over my back.
“I can’t fix the money.”
“No.”
“I can’t work all day.”
“No.”
“I can do this.”
His arm tightened.
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
We stood in the kitchen, holding each other as rain began again against the harbor windows.
Eventually, Noah lifted his head.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
He looked at my mouth.
The request was clear, but I waited.
“Kiss me before you go.”
I touched his jaw.
“Are you steady?”
“Annoyingly.”
“Headache?”
“Still three.”
“Any—”
“Reid.”
I kissed him.
The first contact was light.
Noah’s breath caught.
His hand moved from my back to my shoulder, holding me closer.
I kissed him again, slower.
His mouth opened beneath mine.
The hunger in his response surprised both of us.
Noah tilted his head with instinctive confidence. His tongue touched mine and retreated, then returned when I followed. A soft sound vibrated in his chest.
Heat moved through me.
I kept one hand firm at his waist, holding his balance without taking control of the kiss.
Noah deepened it.
His fingers slid into my hair.
The rest of the apartment fell away.
There was only the pressure of his mouth, the rough catch of breath, and familiar desire arriving through unfamiliar time.
I ended the kiss before his knees gave out.
He remained close, eye closed.
“Still steady?” I asked.
“No.”
I tightened my arm.
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
His mouth curved.
“Other problem.”
It took me a second.
Then I laughed.
The color in his cheeks deepened.
“That good?”
“You appear pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
I helped him into the chair.
Noah touched his lower lip.
“Did I always forget how to stand when you kissed me?”
“Only when I made an effort.”
“Arrogant.”
“Evidence-based.”
He looked up at me with a soft, dazed smile.
“Go before I ask again.”
“I might refuse to go.”
“You have a ferry empire to save.”
“Four launches do not make an empire.”
“Tell your face.”
I bent and kissed his forehead.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
“Whistle.”
At the stairwell, I gave the signal.
Two short notes.
One long.
Noah answered badly with one hand.
I laughed all the way down.
The afternoon work went faster.
Not because the problems changed.
Because his mouth had.
Because the memory of Noah asking for me lived in my body like warmth.
At closing, Owen and Caleb left after making me promise not to stay past six.
I stayed until six twenty.
I completed the trawler estimate, confirmed the ferry schedule, placed the supplier order, and moved enough money to prevent another payment failure.
Then I locked the bays and carried my laptop upstairs.
Noah was asleep on the couch.
Marlowe lay lengthwise over his feet, head raised toward a wildlife documentary playing at low volume. A seal pup struggled through surf on the screen.
The harbor puzzle was nearly complete.
Photographs lay beside Noah’s journal.
Some showed us.
Some showed the yard.
One showed Noah standing in a narrow kitchen with copper-colored cabinets, holding a wooden spoon and laughing at whoever had taken the picture.
Me.
I had taken it.
The apartment had been his first place in Greyhaven after leaving Denver. The kitchen was barely wide enough for two people to stand without touching.
We had always found a way.
I placed my laptop quietly on the table.
Noah stirred.
His eye opened.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What time?”
“Six twenty.”
“You’re late.”
“By twenty minutes.”
“You said before six.”
“I did.”
He sat up slowly.
Marlowe slid from his feet with a groan.
“I was going to make dinner.”
“You were asleep.”
“I thawed chicken.”
That was when I noticed the bowl on the kitchen counter.
“Do you want to cook?”
“I want to do something useful.”
“You don’t need to earn dinner.”
“I know.”
His voice tightened.
“I want to cook.”
I nodded.
“What are we making?”
“My grandmother’s cider chicken.”
“You remember the recipe?”
“Every step.”
The pride in his answer warmed me.
“Then you’re in charge.”
I put the laptop aside.
Noah drove into the kitchen and read the note he had written for himself.
Chicken.
Apples.
Onion.
Cider.
Thyme.
Mustard.
Cream.
The handwriting wandered, but the recipe remained precise.
He directed me to lift the heavy pan, carry water, and reach the ingredients stored above shoulder height. He did everything else himself.
He chopped the apple with his right hand, slower than before but controlled. He measured mustard without looking. He crushed dried thyme between his fingers and smelled it before adding it.
I tried to focus on preparing the table.
Instead, I watched him.
Not because he might fail.
Because the ordinary sight of him cooking felt miraculous.
The kitchen filled with apple, herbs, browned chicken, and the sharp sweetness of cider.
Noah stood at the stove, leaning his hip against the counter for support while he stirred.
His hair fell across his forehead.
His concentration pulled his mouth into a line.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I’m supervising.”
“You have done nothing except move a pan.”
“I moved it extremely well.”
“Then supervise the potatoes.”
I peeled them.
He tasted the sauce.
Added salt.
Tasted again.
Something in his face changed.
He lowered the spoon.
“What?”
Noah did not answer.
His right hand pressed against the counter.
I moved closer.
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
He stared at the spoon.
“I’ve done this.”
“You said it was your grandmother’s recipe.”
“No.”
His breathing quickened.
“This. Here.”
The kitchen grew very still.
Noah looked around as if the walls had shifted.
“Not this kitchen.”
I waited.
He closed his eye.
“The cabinets were orange.”
My heart began to pound.
“Copper,” I said carefully. “They were painted copper.”
“There was no room.”
“No.”
“You sat on the windowsill.”
I could see it.
My back against the glass.
Knees nearly touching the counter.
Noah moving through the tiny kitchen, nervous enough to knock over a glass.
“Yes.”
His face tightened with effort.
“Rain.”
“It was raining.”
“You’d been at the yard all day.”
“Yes.”