His breathing was shallow, but it belonged to him.
I could have listened forever.
“You snore less in here,” I told him. “I’m not sure whether to be pleased or offended.”
His eyelids remained closed.
Tessa adjusted an infusion pump. “Keep talking.”
“He’ll wake up to get away from me.”
“He might find your voice familiar.”
I looked at her.
She smiled gently and returned to the nurses’ station.
Familiar.
I wanted to believe the body could remember what the mind struggled to reach. That something inside Noah knew the sound of me, the pressure of my hand, the cadence of our life.
I told him about Leah’s flight. She would arrive the following afternoon. I told him Caleb had taken over the yard and was probably enjoying the authority too much. I told him Owen had discovered water beneath the office windows and repaired it without being asked.
I told him I had slept in the chair, though calling it sleep was generous.
I told him I missed him.
The confession came quietly.
“I know you’re here,” I said. “I can see you. But I miss you.”
His hand lay in mine, limp and warm.
“I miss you looking at me like you know every version of me. I miss you telling me I’ve loaded the dishwasher wrong. I miss you taking my pillow after claiming you don’t.”
I lowered my head.
“You should wake up soon, because Caleb is making decisions about the yard sign.”
Noah’s fingers tightened.
I froze.
The pressure vanished almost immediately.
“Tessa.”
She looked up.
“He squeezed my hand.”
She came to the bedside and checked him, speaking his name.
Noah’s eye opened.
For several seconds, he looked directly at me.
Not through me.
