“Three years together.”
He examined the stopped hands.
“It was on me?”
“They found it beneath the seat.”
“Did I wear it every day?”
“Almost.”
“Why?”
“You said it made you look responsible.”
His mouth shifted.
“Did it?”
“No.”
That earned me a breath of laughter.
Something thin and folded lay beneath the notebook.
Noah pulled it free.
It was a strip of photographs from a booth at the Greyhaven winter market.
Four frames.
In the first, we faced the camera with exaggerated seriousness.
In the second, Noah had turned toward me.
In the third, his mouth was pressed to my cheek while I laughed.
In the fourth, we were kissing.
Not posed.
Not careful.
His hand was buried in my hair.
The strip shook between Noah’s fingers.
I remembered the night.
December rain.
Mulled cider he hated.
His insistence that we squeeze into the booth even though my knees struck the wall.
He had kept the photographs in his notebook because he said his wallet was already full.
Noah stared at the last frame.
