“What kind?”
“A whistle.”
His eye sharpened. “Do it.”
“I may be wrong.”
“Do it.”
I lifted two fingers toward my mouth, then stopped.
The moment felt too large for the bedroom.
Too easy to damage with hope.
“Noah.”
“You think that’s the sound.”
“I think it might be.”
“Then why are you afraid to try?”
“Because I don’t want to watch your face when it means nothing.”
The truth escaped before I could hide it.
Noah stared at me.
Pain moved through his expression.
Not pity.
Something quieter and more intimate.
“You can’t protect yourself from every answer,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do it.”
I took a breath.
Two short notes.
One long.
The whistle cut through the dim room.
Marlowe’s head came up instantly.
Noah went completely still.
The color left his face.
I stopped breathing.
His right hand returned to his chest.
