The handwriting wandered, but the recipe remained precise.
He directed me to lift the heavy pan, carry water, and reach the ingredients stored above shoulder height. He did everything else himself.
He chopped the apple with his right hand, slower than before but controlled. He measured mustard without looking. He crushed dried thyme between his fingers and smelled it before adding it.
I tried to focus on preparing the table.
Instead, I watched him.
Not because he might fail.
Because the ordinary sight of him cooking felt miraculous.
The kitchen filled with apple, herbs, browned chicken, and the sharp sweetness of cider.
Noah stood at the stove, leaning his hip against the counter for support while he stirred.
His hair fell across his forehead.
His concentration pulled his mouth into a line.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I’m supervising.”
“You have done nothing except move a pan.”
“I moved it extremely well.”
“Then supervise the potatoes.”
I peeled them.
He tasted the sauce.
Added salt.
Tasted again.
Something in his face changed.
He lowered the spoon.
“What?”
Noah did not answer.
His right hand pressed against the counter.
I moved closer.
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
