“I have already exercised.”
“You ate a pastry and opened a drawer.”
“Mentally exhausting.”
Maeve inspected the stair rails, approved the second one, then reprimanded Noah for descending before she arrived.
Noah defended himself.
I refused to join either side.
The therapy session took place upstairs.
Noah managed six supported steps between the kitchen and living room. He practiced standing without pulling on me. Joel tested his balance, reaction time, and controlled weight-bearing.
By the end, all color had drained from Noah’s face.
He hated that we saw it.
When he lowered himself onto the couch, he turned away.
Maeve checked his pulse.
“That’s enough.”
“I can continue.”
“No.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re slurring.”
Noah looked toward me.
I kept my expression neutral.
He heard the change in his own speech and closed his eye.
“Fine.”
Joel reduced the exercises for the next two days.
After he left, Maeve stayed to examine Noah’s incision and review the medication record.
Noah asked me not to leave.
Before I sat down, he reached for my hand.
The gesture no longer startled me.
It still affected every part of me.
Maeve noticed without comment.
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
“Better.”
