The fight left him.
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Today later.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Reid.”
“After you sleep, we reassess.”
His eye narrowed.
“That sounded like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She has infiltrated my vocabulary.”
He sank deeper into the couch.
“Sit here.”
I looked around.
“Where?”
“Floor.”
“Why?”
“Marlowe took the good spot.”
The rug had been removed, leaving bare wood.
I sat anyway, back against the couch.
Noah’s right hand hung near my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke.
The pain medication softened his face gradually.
Marlowe shifted until his body pressed against my leg.
The harbor made its familiar sounds beyond the windows: rigging against masts, water beneath the docks, wind slipping along the side of the building.
Noah listened.
“Is it always noisy?”
“You said it helped you sleep.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“I think I like it.”
