His cheek rested over my heart. His right palm flattened against my ribs. My arm held his waist with painful care, cautious of healing bone and even more cautious of hope.
“I understand the dream now,” he said.
“Which one?”
“The warm room.”
My heart stopped.
“The hand at the back of my neck,” he continued. “I thought it was a photograph.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
He shifted closer by the smallest amount.
“It was this.”
“Being held?”
“Yes.”
His voice roughened.
“I think my body remembers you.”
I could not answer.
Noah lifted his head.
Our faces were only inches apart.
His gaze moved over mine.
“You’re crying.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I should have chosen a gentler truth.
Instead, the real one escaped.
“Because I have missed you while you were standing directly in front of me.”
Pain crossed his expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Never apologize for that.”
I loosened my arm in case he wanted space.
He did not step away.
His right hand lifted.
