“And remain upstairs?”
“Yes.”
I brought my laptop to the dining table and answered work emails while Noah sorted pieces.
Every few minutes, he looked up.
Every time, I was still there.
Dinner was the first meal we cooked together after the accident.
Nothing complicated.
Salmon with lemon and herbs. Potatoes crushed with butter. Green beans that Noah declared overcooked before they had finished steaming.
He sat at the island in his chair and tore parsley into a bowl with his right hand.
“I can cut something.”
“Not safely with one hand.”
“I have one functional hand and years of experience with knives.”
“You also have dizziness.”
“I’m seated.”
“You are exhausting.”
“You love me.”
The words left him casually.
We both froze.
Noah’s face changed.
“I meant—you told me—”
“I do.”
He looked down at the herbs in his hand.
“I know.”
The silence afterward was not awkward.
Only full.
I gave him a butter knife and a bowl of mushrooms.
“You may slice these.”
“With this?”
“It is the only weapon permitted under your current license.”
He mangled the first mushroom.
