“Your hand.”
His right hand moved to the back of his neck.
“You stood there.”
I could barely speak.
“Yes.”
“After the storm?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the wall beneath the lamp.
“We kissed here.”
I searched the memory.
Not our first kiss.
Months later, after he had moved upstairs, we came home soaked from a winter callout. He had stopped beneath the lamp and pulled me against him because the power was out and the green emergency light made everything look unreal.
“You remember?”
“No.”
His frustration flashed.
“I know it. That’s different.”
“It still matters.”
“I can’t see it.”
“You don’t have to.”
He pressed his palm to the wall.
“Warm wood,” he whispered.
The words from his dream.
A tremor went through him.
I crouched beside the chair.
“Noah.”
He looked at me.
“I was behind you,” I said. “You were cold. I put my hand on your neck.”
His breath caught.
“Did I turn around?”
“Yes.”
