Another small shake.
I waited.
His frustration rose. “There’s a word.”
“We can find it later.”
“No.”
He looked around the courtyard, at the moving branches and the wet grass.
“Still,” he said finally. “You make me feel still.”
The words entered me slowly.
Not love.
Not memory.
Something new.
“I don’t know why,” he said.
“You don’t need to.”
“I trust you.”
I lowered my gaze because my eyes had filled.
Noah noticed.
“You’re doing it again.”
“I know.”
“Crying because I say normal things.”
“That wasn’t normal to me.”
He looked almost pleased.
“Can I ask something?”
“Anything.”
“If I go home with you, what happens?”
I drew a slow breath.
“The occupational therapist will inspect the apartment. We’ll move the bedroom downstairs if the stairs aren’t safe.”
“There is no downstairs bedroom.”
“There’s an office beside the workshop.”
“You’d put me in your office?”
“I’d turn it into a room.”
