“I’m going to carry you.”
Noah’s eye opened.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You said your back—”
“My back will survive.”
Owen locked the powered chair.
I crouched in front of Noah.
“Arms around my neck. Keep the left supported.”
He obeyed without argument, which told me how tired he was.
I slid one arm beneath his thighs and the other around his back.
He was lighter than before the accident.
The fact angered me every time.
I lifted him.
Noah’s head settled against my shoulder.
His breath warmed my neck.
Owen carried the bags and went ahead to open doors.
The stairs were awkward but manageable. I took them slowly, keeping Noah’s injured hip away from the rail.
Halfway up, he murmured, “Cal.”
“Yes?”
“Like this.”
“What?”
“You carrying me.”
“Is it painful?”
“No.”
His grip tightened faintly.
“Feels like I know it.”
My heart stumbled.
“Maybe I carried you before.”
“Did you?”
