I think about lying. Habit lifts its head.
"No," I say.
His eyes sharpen.
"But better."
He exhales. A sound that is almost a laugh and almost relief. "That may be the most Nolan answer possible."
"Efficient."
"Emotionally infuriating, but efficient."
I should leave.
The thought arrives on schedule. Shoulder turn. Feet toward floor. Procedure. The old door.
My body starts the motion before I choose it.
Caleb feels it. He does not stop me.
That is why I stop myself.
I sit on the edge of the bed for three seconds with my back to him, breathing through the pain and the old reflex. The room waits. Caleb waits. The waiting is worse than being asked. It gives me the decision and refuses to take any part of it away.
I turn back.
"Ice melted," I say.
It is a stupid sentence.
It is also the sentence I have.
Caleb looks at the wet towel, then at me. Something in his face softens so much I almost cannot stay.
"I'll get more," he says.
"In the morning."
He goes still.
I lie back down. Not gracefully. Not without pain. But down. In the bed. Beside him.
Caleb turns off the lamp.
In the dark, the room is less specific. Less dangerous. The shape of him beside me is still too real, but the dark helps. I can feel him not touching me. Waiting again.
I reach across the space and put two fingers against his wrist.
He turns his hand under mine.
We do not speak.
Down the hall, the elevator dings.
A door opens. Voices, low. A man laughs. There is the faint metallic click of a press badge hitting something hard. The sound barely registers.
Then a door closes.
