Chapter 22 #2
“Curiosity is enough reason to explore,” she said. “Fear is enough reason to stop. They may exist together.”
Noah nodded.
Then she looked at me.
“And you should not anticipate every reaction before he experiences it.”
“I try not to.”
“You are not successful.”
Noah smiled. “I’ve mentioned that.”
The harbor road carried us home.
Noah remained quiet through two traffic lights.
At the third, he said, “Ten minutes.”
I glanced at him. “What?”
“She said ten minutes.”
“She offered an example.”
“I heard a prescription.”
“She did not prescribe making out.”
“Medical interpretation is subjective.”
I laughed.
The sound surprised me.
Noah looked pleased.
“Where?” he asked.
“Where what?”
“Where should we conduct this medically supervised experiment?”
“You are exhausted after appointments.”
“I did not ask when.”
“The couch.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Not the bedroom?”
“The couch carries fewer associations.”
“Our couch carries several associations.”
I remembered the fragments he had recovered from Alder Cove and kept my attention on the road.
“Fewer than the bed.”
“That is probably true.”
“You can remain upright. Your hip will be supported. Either of us can stop without climbing over the other.”
“You have considered this.”
“Every hour since you first asked about sex.”
Color climbed his neck.
“Is that difficult?”
“What?”
“Wanting me and having to plan around all of this.”
I considered lying.
“No.”
He gave me a tired look.
“Yes,” I corrected. “Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize.”
“I keep making you wait.”
“You are not making me do anything.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
I reached across the console.
Noah placed his hand in mine.
“I miss pieces of our old physical life,” I said. “I also value what we are building now.”
“What are we building?”
“You ask me to kiss you as though the answer matters.”
“It does.”
“It always mattered. Before the accident, we were fluent. Now we say the words aloud.”
“Is that better?”
“Different.”
I turned his hand palm-up.
“Sometimes better.”
He watched our fingers.
“I don’t want you pretending any of this is easy.”
“It is not easy.”
“Good.”
I glanced at him.
His mouth curved.
“That sounded terrible.”
“It sounded honest.”
“Is it too early to become difficult in my new role as your partner?”
“You were difficult before the position became official.”
He smiled toward the window.
By the time we reached the yard, fatigue had softened the lines of his face.
He refused the stair lift and admitted halfway up that the refusal had been stupid.
I stayed one step below him.
“No commentary,” he warned.
“I said nothing.”
“Your silence is smug.”
“The cane and I have formed a political coalition.”
He made it upstairs.
On the couch, he raised the footrest and closed his eye before I finished bringing water.
I placed crackers, sliced pear, and his medication within reach.
“Rest.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I love you anyway.”
The casual words stopped me.
Noah opened his eye.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where I say something ordinary and you behave as though I handed you the moon.”
I crouched beside him.
“You say it differently every time.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
I brushed his hair from his forehead.
“It makes every version belong to me.”
His expression softened.
“Come here.”
I leaned closer.
He kissed me once.
No urgency.
A quiet seal over everything we had said in the office.
“Go work,” he murmured.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
“Whistle.”
I gave the signal from the stairwell.
Noah attempted to answer.
The final note collapsed into a breathy cough.
I laughed all the way down.
Caleb and Owen had nearly finished preparing the third ferry launch. Shore-power cables crossed the north bay in orderly loops. Owen stood aboard the vessel testing the emergency-light panel while Caleb crouched beside a crate of isolation transformers.
“You look cheerful,” Caleb said.
“The appointment went well.”
“Only reason?”
“Yes.”
Owen leaned over the rail. “He’s lying.”
“I know,” Caleb said.
I pulled on gloves.
“You are both replaceable.”
“Not according to the schedule,” Owen replied.
We worked through the afternoon.
The second Harbor Transit payment arrived.
Not enough to erase every concern.
Enough for payroll and the supplier account.
I transferred the funds immediately, then checked the insurance portal.
Still pending.
Relief over one payment merely exposed how tired I had become of uncertainty.
At half past five, Noah appeared in the office doorway.
He wore dark jeans, a charcoal sweater, and no shoes.
I stared at his feet.
“You came down the stairs barefoot.”
“I brought the cane.”
“That was not the issue.”
“I intended to surprise you.”
“You succeeded.”
His gaze moved to the computer screen.
“Bad numbers?”
“Improving numbers.”
“Insurance?”
“Nothing.”
He absorbed the answer.
Then he pointed upstairs.
“I made dinner.”
“You did?”
“Cod with lemon. Potatoes. Something green.”
“Something?”
“I lost the word while cooking.”
“Spinach?”
“No.”
“Beans?”
Relief crossed his face.
“Yes. Beans.”
I closed the laptop.
“Are you tired?”
“I slept for three hours.”
“Headache?”
“One.”
“Hip?”
“Manageable.”
His cheeks colored before he spoke.
“I was thinking about the experiment.”
Heat moved through me.
“You were?”
“I wrote rules.”
Of course he had.
“Show me.”
He removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
At the top, in precise handwriting, he had written:
TEN MINUTES.
CLOTHES REMAIN ON.
KISSING AND TOUCH ABOVE THE WAIST.
ASK BEFORE CHANGING ANYTHING.
EITHER PERSON MAY STOP.
NO APOLOGIZING.
I read the list twice.
Noah watched my face.
“Too clinical?”
“No.”
“Unromantic?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
I folded the paper along its existing crease.
“I love you.”
His shoulders dropped.
“That is not practical feedback.”
“It is all I have.”
We locked the yard together.
Caleb and Owen had already left. Noah checked the rear doors while I armed the alarm. At the stairwell, he climbed one step at a time. I followed close enough to catch him without touching.
On the final landing, his hip stiffened.
He held out his hand.
I took it.
Upstairs, dinner waited beneath foil.
The green beans were slightly overcooked. The cod was excellent. Noah had made dill sauce from memory, though he could not recall where he had learned the recipe.
We ate beside the harbor windows.
Neither of us mentioned what would happen afterward.
That made every small sound feel charged.
The scrape of a fork.
The quiet tap of his glass against the table.
The shift of his foot beneath the chair.
When the plates were empty, Noah stood.
“Leave them.”
“I can wash.”
“Later.”
I followed him into the living room.
The lamps were low.
The old green navigation light glowed in the hall.
Noah had moved the coffee table, leaving an open space before the couch.
“You planned the geography.”
“I know how your knees function.”
I almost laughed.
Then I saw the nervousness beneath his expression.
I stopped several feet away.
“We do not have to do this tonight.”
“I know.”
“We can change any rule.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to sit?”
“Yes.”
I took the center of the couch.
Noah remained standing for another moment.
Then he lowered himself beside me. He turned slightly and brought one leg onto the cushion. His healing hip prevented him from folding it completely.
He reached for his phone.
“Timer.”
“You want an alarm?”
“I don’t trust my ability to measure ten minutes while kissing you.”
“That is optimistic.”
“It is based on prior evidence.”
He set the timer and placed the phone facedown.
Neither of us moved.
Noah looked at my mouth.
“Can I begin?”
“Yes.”
He touched my cheek first.
His fingertips moved into my beard, testing the texture as if it belonged on Dr. Whitcomb’s scale.
“Green?” he asked.
“Very green.”
He smiled.
Then his mouth touched mine.
Softly.
Carefully.
The first few seconds felt almost formal.
His lips moved against mine once, then paused.
I waited.
He kissed me again.
Longer.
His hand remained cupped around my jaw.
I placed mine at his waist over the charcoal wool.
“Green?”
“Yes.”
His shoulders loosened.
We found a rhythm without rushing toward anything beyond it.
Kissing for its own sake.
Knowing that changed the intimacy.
Noah could stop at any point without abandoning an unfinished act. I could desire him without letting desire become momentum.
His mouth opened.
I touched my tongue lightly to his.
His breath caught.
“Green?” I murmured against his lips.
“Yes.”
He kissed me more deeply.
My hand traveled along his side but stayed above his waist. Warmth gathered beneath the sweater. He shifted until his knee pressed against my thigh.
Desire tightened hard and low in my body.
Noah noticed.
His kiss slowed.
“Amber?”
I remained still.
“For you or for me?”
“You.”
I considered the question.
“Green,” I said. “Intense, but green.”
His eye searched mine.
“Can intense become bad?”
“Yes.”
“What happens then?”
“I ask to pause.”
He nodded.
Then he kissed me again.
Speaking did not ruin the moment.
It made trust part of it.
His fingers slid behind my neck. My hand spread over his back. When he leaned closer and our chests met, a soft sound escaped him.
The sound went directly through me.
My fingers tightened before I remembered the rule.
Noah felt the pressure.
“Green,” he whispered.
I held him more firmly.
His mouth became hungry.
Not desperate.
Curious enough to forget fear for several breaths.
His lips parted wider. His tongue met mine with less hesitation. He tasted of dill, lemon, and the coffee he had drunk while cooking. His beard—shorter than mine, softer—brushed my chin.
I wanted him with an intensity that made my hands ache.
I kept one palm at his back and the other at his side.
No lower.
No assumptions.
No test of how far he might let me go.
Noah shifted again.
His hip brushed mine.
My body hardened completely.
He stopped.
We remained close, breathing the same air.
“Amber?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“Not red.”
“All right.”
“I can feel you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to move?”
“No.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not yet.”
A nervous laugh left him.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”