Chapter 24
REID
The settlement had been approved, but the money had not yet appeared in the yard’s account.
It didn’t matter.
Certainty changed a business before cash ever touched the balance sheet. For weeks, every decision had been an exercise in containment—what could wait, what could be repaired instead of replaced, which problem was least likely to become an emergency before we found the money to solve it.
Now I could think beyond survival.
I spent the afternoon reviewing safety systems.
Not luxuries.
Not the polished improvements consultants recommended because they looked impressive in annual reports.
Things we should have done years ago.
A replacement for the portable hoist.
Non-slip strips for the rear stairs.
New lockout-and-tag kits in both service bays.
A proper ventilated cabinet for battery charging.
Updated first-aid stations.
Better fall protection in the loft.
And once the van was replaced, no roadside service call would be handled by one person alone.
Caleb and Owen sat across from me in the cramped office while I worked through the list.
Caleb frowned at the first page.
“You’re replacing the hoist?”
“It was manufactured before Owen learned to read.”
Owen looked offended. “I learned unusually early.”
“The manufacturer no longer exists.”
“That suggests durability.”
“It suggests the equipment has outlived the company that built it.”
I turned the page.
“I want both of you to add anything that makes the work safer or less punishing.”
Caleb leaned back in his chair.
“Did you win the lottery while we weren’t looking?”
“The insurance claim was approved.”
The room fell silent.
Owen recovered first.
“All of it?”
“The van. The equipment inventory. Business interruption. Noah’s wage-replacement benefits. His treatment.”
Caleb released a long breath.
“Thank God.”
The relief in his voice reminded me that the fear had never belonged to me alone.
The yard had been my responsibility, but its survival mattered to everyone inside it.
“You should have told us how close things were,” Caleb said.
“You knew.”
“We knew it was bad. We didn’t know you were pricing Mercy.”
I looked at Owen.
He lifted one shoulder.
“You left the valuation page sitting on the office printer.”
“I was not going to sell her.”
“You considered it,” Caleb said.
“I considered many bad ideas.”
He rubbed both palms over his face.
“We could have helped.”
“You did.”
“By working.”
“By keeping the yard alive.”
Neither of them answered.
I opened the top drawer of the desk and removed two envelopes.
Caleb’s name was written on one. Owen’s on the other.
I slid them across the desk.
Owen eyed his without touching it.
“What is this?”
“Not money yet.”
“That makes it sound worse.”
“A written commitment.”
Caleb opened his envelope.
His expression changed as he read.
“Profit share?”
“When the settlement arrives, five percent of the business-interruption payment will be divided between you.”
Owen stared at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You paid overtime.”
“Not enough for what you carried.”
“We did our jobs.”
“You did mine too.”
Caleb read the letter a second time.
“This is too much.”
“It is not.”
Owen glanced toward the ceiling, as if Noah might somehow be listening through the floor.
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.”
“He’ll agree with you,” Owen said.
“Yes.”
“That makes two of you wrong.”
Caleb folded the letter carefully along its original crease.
“You’re certain?”
“I have never been more certain about money.”
“That may be the least reassuring thing you’ve said today.”
I laughed.
The sound felt unfamiliar in the office.
For another hour, we argued over equipment.
Caleb wanted mobile work platforms with adjustable rails. Owen wanted a better ventilation system in the sail loft. Both insisted a commercial coffee grinder counted as an occupational-health expense.
I rejected that.
They called my judgment compromised.
Noah came upstairs early that afternoon.
He had made it through Elias and Miriam’s visit, the insurance call, and another hour of work before the headache arrived.
By the time I found him on the couch, the shades were drawn and the apartment lay in shadow.
The television was off.
Marlowe lay pressed along Noah’s front as though guarding him from the room itself.
Noah had one arm across his eyes.
I crouched beside the couch.
“How bad?”
“Five.”
My stomach tightened.
“When did it begin?”
“After lunch.”
“It’s nearly four.”
“I took something.”
“Did you call Maeve?”
“She left at two.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were doing schedules.”
“Noah.”
He moved his arm and opened his eye.
Even in the dim light, opening his eye made him wince.
“I thought it would fade.”
I touched the back of my fingers to his cheek.
“No fever.”
“Apparently I’m surviving.”
“That is an inadequate standard.”
“I learned it from you.”
His speech had slowed.
Not slurred.
He needed longer to form each word.
I went to the freezer and took out the cold cap, wrapped it in a thin towel, and settled it across his forehead.
Noah breathed out.
“Water?”
“I drank some.”
“Food?”
“Crackers.”
“When?”
He frowned.
That was answer enough.
I brought yogurt, sliced banana, and a small piece of bread.
He looked at the plate as though I had personally betrayed him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Three bites.”
“You’re intolerable.”
“Yes.”
He ate four.
I sat on the floor beside him.
His hand drifted weakly toward me.
“What do you need?”
“A proper cuddle.”
“You’re in pain.”
“That is the point.”
I removed my boots and fitted myself onto the narrow couch behind him.
The furniture had never been designed for two grown men and an elderly dog, but over the years we had perfected the arrangement. Noah rolled onto his side. I settled behind him, careful of his healing hip, and drew him against my chest.
My palm rested lightly over his ribs.
“Hair,” he murmured.
I combed my fingers through it.
“Back.”
I rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades.
The tension left him one muscle at a time.
“Any better?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Still five.”
“Do we call the on-call number?”
“Not yet.”
I checked the time.
“If it remains at five for another hour, we call.”
“All right.”
He accepted the limit without arguing.
That, more than the walking or the work downstairs, showed how much he had changed. Recognizing the edge of his capacity had become another form of control.
Rain scented the apartment through the old window frames. Beneath it lingered the warm, earthy smell of the lentil casserole Noah had put in the oven before the headache worsened.
The timer sounded from the kitchen.
Noah groaned.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Sorry.”
“For cooking dinner?”
“For ruining it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
I kissed the scar near his temple and left him long enough to remove the casserole.
He had forgotten the salt.
It was still edible.
I carried a small bowl to the couch and fed him because sitting upright made the pain spike. Noah objected twice, then glared while opening his mouth for every spoonful.
“This is humiliating.”
“This is dinner.”
“I can hold a spoon.”
“You can barely focus on one.”
“I could attempt it.”
“Tomorrow.”
He ate enough for the next dose of medication.
When I lay behind him again, the pain finally began to ease.
His body softened against mine.
“Three,” he whispered.
“Good.”
“The money is fixed.”
“The claim is approved.”
“You’re less tight.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
His hand searched under the blanket until it found mine.
“You’ve been braced for another impact since I woke in the hospital.”
The observation surprised me.
“I thought that was you.”
“Both of us.”
He brought my hand to his chest.
“You can rest too.”
“I am resting.”
“No. You’re waiting for me to need something.”
“I like being useful.”
A tired smile touched his mouth.
“That is dangerous.”
“Yes.”
He fell asleep.
I remained awake.
Not waiting for a change in his breathing.
Not counting the seconds between movements.
Only holding him while evening darkened the apartment.
When he woke, the headache had dropped to two.
I helped him to bed early and joined him after closing the yard.
The medication had already pulled him into a deep sleep.
The sheets smelled clean. The green navigation light glowed softly in the hall. Marlowe circled three times at the foot of the bed before collapsing with an exhausted sigh, despite having done nothing all day.
I moved close enough for Noah to find me without waking.
His body shifted immediately.
One hand spread across my chest.
His face settled beneath my jaw.
“All right,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
His breathing stayed slow.
I kissed his forehead.
“I love you.”
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
Morning arrived warm.
Noah woke before I did.
I knew because his body went subtly tense against mine.
He did not pull away.
He had simply become aware.
We lay on our sides with his back against my chest and my arm wrapped loosely around his waist. His shirt had ridden up during sleep, leaving my palm against the warm skin of his stomach.
My erection pressed between us through thin sleep clothes.
I kept perfectly still.
Noah shifted his hips.
Only a small movement.
Pleasure surged through me.
He stopped.
Then he did it again.
Slower.
Deliberate.
I opened my eyes.
“Morning.”
“Don’t move.”
His voice was rough with sleep.
I froze completely.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Nightmare?”
“No.”
His hand settled over mine at his stomach.
“I woke like this.”
“With me behind you?”
“With both of us hard.”
My pulse surged.
“All right.”
“I was touching myself.”
The words came softly.
His right arm moved beneath the blanket.
He was.
“Would you like privacy?”
“No.”
“Do you want my hand off you?”
“No.”
“Do you want anything else from me?”
He drew in a breath.
“Stay where you are.”
I stayed.
Noah moved his hips again.
The hard length of me slid along the seam between his thighs, separated by the soft fabric of our clothes.
My breath broke.
A low sound escaped him.
“Green?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want movement?”
“Yes.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
I tightened my arm around his waist, anchoring him without trapping him.
Then I moved once.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Noah’s hand stopped beneath the blanket.
His back arched against my chest.