Weeks of fear had buried desire without destroying it. Now Noah was home. He had kissed me. He had asked me into our bed. He had curled around me with the unconscious trust of our old life.
My body wanted to treat that as permission.
My mind knew better.
I braced one hand against the tile and took myself in the other.
There was no romance in it.
Only pressure released privately before it could become something Noah had to notice or manage.
Even then, memory intruded.
His mouth opening beneath mine.
The shy challenge in his face when he called me Cal.
The warm weight of his palm over my heart.
I finished quickly, forehead against the cool tile, breath unsteady.
Afterward, guilt tried to arrive.
I refused it.
Desire did not make me dangerous.
Ignoring Noah’s boundaries would.
I showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen.
The sky beyond the windows was pale and clear. Yesterday’s rain had scrubbed the harbor clean. Masts caught the first light. A ferry moved across the channel, leaving a white wake behind it.
I started coffee and made oatmeal because it required little thought and could be eaten slowly.
At seven, Noah entered in the powered chair.
His hair stood up on one side.
His expression suggested morning had personally offended him.
“Good morning.”
He stared at me.
I handed him coffee.
He took it without speaking.
“There you are.”
No response.
“You used to need two cups before language.”
He drank.
“Still do.”
