“What if I wake up in here and don’t know where I am?”
“I’ll keep my door open.”
“The spare room is across the hall.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
He touched the blanket again.
“I don’t want you in this bed because you think I owe you.”
“I would never.”
“I know.”
The certainty in his answer struck me.
“But I don’t want you hiding in another room because you think I’m made of glass.”
“You have a healing skull fracture.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
“You decide,” I said. “Not tonight while you’re tired. Not because you feel sorry for me. You can ask me to sleep here, in the spare room, on the couch, or downstairs. The answer will be yes.”
“Where have you been sleeping?”
“The spare room.”
“On what?”
“A pullout couch.”
He frowned.
“That thing is awful.”
“You remember it?”
“No. It looks awful.”
“It is.”
A knock sounded from below.
“Food,” Caleb called up the stairwell.
The interruption loosened the room.
Noah handed me the photograph.
“Leave it up.”
