He answered without hesitation.
“Waking up alone.”
There was nothing I could argue with in that truth.
“We can try tonight,” I said.
His shoulders lowered.
“You stay on your side.”
“Yes.”
“No reaching for me in your sleep.”
“I will keep my hands to myself.”
“If I decide I can’t do it?”
“I leave.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
He lifted his coffee and drank.
“Fine.”
Relief rose so strongly it nearly became a smile. I suppressed it.
Noah noticed.
“You’re making that expression again.”
“What expression?”
“The one where your mouth goes rigid because you don’t want me to see that you’re pleased.”
“I’m not pleased you had a bad night.”
“You’re pleased I asked you back.”
There was no point denying it.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved over the rim of the mug.
“You’re allowed.”
After breakfast, the visiting nurse arrived.
Maeve Carter had cropped silver hair, sensible shoes, and a manner brisk enough to discourage self-pity without ever becoming unkind. More importantly, she addressed Noah directly rather than speaking about him as though he were a defective appliance.
She checked his blood pressure, surgical sites, balance, pain level, hydration, and medication log.
“How was the first night at home?” she asked.
