“Can I help now?”
“Yes.”
I braced his right side.
Noah placed both feet on the floor and stood. His weight shifted carefully through the injured hip.
He leaned into me for balance.
“How does it feel?”
“Stiff.”
“Pain?”
“Two.”
“No spinning?”
“No.”
We crossed the few steps to the hall.
He lowered into the chair with control.
I tried not to smile.
He caught me.
“You can say it.”
“You did well.”
“I know.”
That answer pleased me more than modesty would have.
Noah drove toward the bathroom.
“I need a minute.”
“I’ll set up dinner.”
“Do not light emergency flares.”
“I had planned three.”
He disappeared into the bathroom.
I carried the food to the living room.
The dining table remained covered by the puzzle, and I did not want to clear away work that gave him a sense of progress. Instead, I arranged dinner on the broad window ledge and moved the small side table between two chairs.
No candles.
No formal setting.
Nothing that felt like a performance of romance he was expected to recognize.
