“Almost six.”
He tried to sit.
I put out a hand without touching him.
“Slow.”
Noah pushed upright and leaned against the wall.
The sweater remained in his lap.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“Little.”
“Headache?”
“Same.”
I breathed again.
“What were you doing in here?”
His cheeks colored.
“Looking.”
“For what?”
“You.”
The answer struck directly.
I sat more carefully.
“I’m usually downstairs.”
“I know.”
He touched the sweater.
“I wanted to know what your room looked like.”
“This is barely a room.”
“I noticed.”
His gaze moved over the desk, the narrow floor, the unfolded bed.
“You sleep here.”
“Sometimes.”
“The mattress hates people.”
