“I do.”
“I remain on my side.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t touch you unless you ask.”
He frowned. “What if you are asleep?”
“Then I won’t touch you.”
“What if I touch you?”
“I will attempt to survive.”
His laughter returned.
His fingertips traced the callus at the base of my thumb.
“I like your hands.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Before the accident?”
“Before and after.”
“Consistent.”
“Extremely.”
He lifted my hand.
For one breathless second, I thought he might kiss it.
Instead, he pressed my knuckles against his cheek and closed his eye.
The tenderness of it hurt more than anything overt could have.
I let him choose the pressure.
“I’m tired,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“Help me stand?”
I rose and faced him.
Noah took my hand. He came upright more easily than he had that morning, though exhaustion carried him close enough that his forehead settled against my chest.
I placed one arm around his waist.
“Still comfortable?”
“Yes.”
His voice vibrated through my shirt.
