Noah’s hand tightened.
Elias looked at him again.
“You have someone solid beside you.”
“I do.”
The answer left Noah instantly.
Without caution.
Without calculation.
Both of us went still.
He heard what he had said a heartbeat later. Color rose along his cheekbones, and he looked away.
In the hall, Elias’s wife pressed her fingers more tightly to her mouth.
“My wife is the only reason I got out of bed this morning,” Elias said. “She’s the reason I came instead of spending another day imagining what you might look like. Whether you hated me. Whether you were even conscious.”
The woman gave him a trembling smile.
Elias’s attention returned to Noah.
“I’m relieved you aren’t going through this alone.”
Noah looked at me.
“So am I.”
Something closed around my throat.
I lowered my gaze to our hands because I did not trust my face.
Elias stayed another ten minutes.
They did not discuss fault again. Noah asked about the truck, and Elias explained that the flatbed had been impounded for inspection and would almost certainly be dismantled rather than returned to service.
They spoke about the damaged section of Breaker Avenue. About transport inspections. About the weather that morning. About the unnerving truth that metal could appear solid until the precise instant it failed.
When Elias stood, Noah released my hand.
He extended his own toward the driver.
Elias took it with visible care, mindful of the healing bones and bruised joints.
“You are under no obligation to forgive me,” he said.
Noah studied him.
“I don’t remember enough to forgive you.”
Elias nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“But I don’t hate you.”
The man’s face folded.
