Chapter 19 #2
“My body responds when you kiss me. I want more, and then I think about everything we must have done. It feels like another life I’m expected to perform correctly.”
“You are not performing for me.”
“You’ll compare.”
“No.”
“You remember.”
“I remember what came before.” I held his gaze. “I can still meet you where you are now.”
His mouth tightened.
“What if I’m different in bed?”
“Then we learn what different means.”
“What if I don’t want the same things?”
“Then we leave them in the past.”
“What if I never want sex again?”
The question struck a painful place.
I allowed it to hurt.
“Then we do not have sex.”
Noah searched my face as though expecting the truth to crack.
“You’d stay.”
“Yes.”
“Even if it never changed?”
“Yes.”
“You answer too easily.”
“It is not easy.” My voice remained quiet. “It is clear.”
His chin trembled.
“I don’t want to lose that part of myself too.”
I raised my hand slowly.
“May I touch you?”
He nodded.
My palm settled against his cheek.
“You have not lost desire.”
“No.”
“You are not broken because wanting frightens you.”
“I know.”
“You do not need to solve everything tonight.”
His eye closed.
“What do we do, then?”
“Whatever feels safe.”
“Such as?”
“We could talk.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
I smiled.
“We could kiss.”
His eye opened.
“That sounds better.”
“We stop whenever you want.”
“What if I want more?”
“You ask.”
“And you?”
“I ask too.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened.
I leaned toward him but stopped before our mouths met.
Noah crossed the remaining distance.
The first contact was tentative.
Then warm.
I placed both hands at his waist and kept them there.
Nothing wandering.
Nothing assumed.
He kissed me again.
Longer this time.
His right hand curved around the back of my neck. His mouth opened under mine, and when his tongue touched mine, desire moved through me with enough force that restraint became physical work.
Noah felt the change.
He drew back.
“You’re hard.”
“Yes.”
Color deepened over his cheeks.
“From kissing?”
“From you.”
His gaze dropped between us even though our hips did not touch.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Does it mean we have to do something?”
“No.”
He looked at me again.
“Can I feel?”
The question nearly undid me.
“Over my clothes?”
“Yes.”
I took his wrist gently but did not move it.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
I waited.
His breathing quickened.
“I want to know.”
“Curiosity is not the same as consent.”
“I know.”
“You can decide not to.”
“I know.”
His gaze held mine.
“I want to touch you.”
Only then did I guide his hand down.
His palm settled over the front of my jeans.
My breath caught.
Even through denim, the warmth and pressure of his hand went through me.
Noah stared at where he touched me.
Then at my face.
“You’re watching me.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“For regret?”
“For any sign that you want to stop.”
His fingers shifted slightly.
Pleasure surged through my body.
I shut my eyes for one second.
Noah noticed.
“That feels good.”
“Yes.”
“Did I touch you like this before?”
“Yes.”
“Did you react that way?”
“Less gracefully.”
His mouth curved.
The fear in his expression loosened into cautious curiosity.
He pressed his palm more firmly against me.
A rough breath escaped my throat.
Heat darkened his gaze.
His fingers traced the hard shape beneath the denim, exploring rather than stroking, and my hand tightened around his wrist before I forced myself to relax.
“Noah.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say my name like that?”
“Because you are touching me.”
“That was the point.”
A quiet laugh escaped me.
He shifted closer.
His palm moved again, slow and uncertain. Pleasure rolled low through me, sharpened by the knowledge that each touch was his decision, given without memory and without debt.
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to put my hand beneath his shirt and feel the warmth of his skin.
I wanted much more than his recovering body could safely give.
I stayed still.
Noah watched every reaction cross my face.
His thumb pressed once along the length of me.
My breath broke.
His eye darkened.
“Did you like when I teased you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough that answering honestly would encourage you.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It was often disastrous.”
His hand moved once more.
Then fatigue swept across his face.
It happened in an instant.
His gaze lost focus. His shoulders sagged. The hand over me went still.
I covered it with mine and lifted it away.
“That’s enough.”
“I did not say stop.”
“Your body did.”
His expression tightened with irritation.
Then he yawned.
I laughed softly.
Humiliation replaced the irritation.
“This is appalling.”
“This is recovery.”
“I was trying to seduce you.”
“You succeeded.”
“I’m about to fall asleep.”
“That is also true.”
He leaned into me.
I wrapped my arms around him, careful of his healing side.
“No embarrassment,” I said.
“I touched you for less than a minute and now require unconsciousness.”
“You could leave an extremely damaging review.”
His laughter vibrated against my chest.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not making it strange.”
“It was profoundly strange.”
He pinched my side.
I held him closer.
Later, Noah slept with his head in my lap while the baseball game continued soundlessly on the television.
I texted Leah.
ME: What happened during the call?
Her response arrived almost immediately.
LEAH: I made a terrible joke about your sex life. I forgot he might not be ready. I’m so sorry.
ME: He’s all right. We talked.
LEAH: I feel awful.
ME: Don’t. Let him decide whether he wants to discuss it again.
LEAH: Understood. Tell him I love him.
I put the phone aside.
Noah slept deeply beneath my hand.
The scars from the accident had faded, but they had not disappeared. One pale line curved over his temple. Another vanished into his hair. Bruising no longer marked his face, but the damage had changed the way I looked at every peaceful breath.
He had been beautiful before the accident.
He was beautiful now.
Love had altered its shape.
It had not diminished.
When I woke him for bed, he could barely keep his eye open.
I helped him brush his teeth and change. He stood beside the mattress in dark briefs, sleep-heavy and trusting, while I pulled back the covers.
“You stay,” he murmured.
“I’m only turning off the lights.”
“Come back.”
“I will.”
He was asleep before I reached the doorway.
I cleaned the kitchen, closed the harbor windows against the cold, and stacked the photographs Noah had left scattered on the coffee table.
The images of us lay near the top.
Noah laughing with his head on my shoulder.
Noah in a suit beside me at Leah’s wedding.
Noah in our bed, bare-chested beneath white sheets, flushed and unmistakably cherished.
He had been studying them.
Trying alone to understand what years of intimacy had meant.
I placed the photographs beside his memory journal.
No shame.
No hiding.
The following day, if he wanted, we would talk again.
When I climbed into bed, Noah shifted toward me automatically.
His head settled on my chest.
His right arm crossed my stomach.
I kissed his forehead.
“I love you,” I whispered.
I expected no answer.
His breathing remained deep and even.
Then, without hesitation, he murmured, “Love you, Cal.”
Everything inside me stopped.
The words had come too naturally to be chosen.
No pause.
No search.
The private name.
The old answer.
I looked down at him.
He was fully asleep, his face peaceful against my chest.
Perhaps it was memory.
Perhaps habit remained somewhere beneath conscious thought.
Perhaps the words meant nothing more than a dreaming brain wandering along an old path.
They meant everything to me.
I wrapped both arms around him.
“Love you too,” I whispered.
Noah did not wake.
He only moved closer.