His limp remained pronounced, but he walked without holding the wall.
I stopped.
He wore dark jeans and a soft gray shirt that belonged to me.
Or had belonged to me once.
Our clothes had long ago stopped respecting ownership.
“You’re walking.”
“I do that now.”
“You should have waited.”
“For permission?”
“For someone nearby.”
His expression tightened.
I corrected myself.
“You look steady.”
“I am.”
“And dressed.”
He looked down at the shirt.
“I think this is yours.”
“It was.”
“You want it back?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He approached until only a foot separated us.
“I heard the roller door.”
“That’s new.”
“I know.”
His smile held pride.
“Everything seems clearer after I sleep.”
“I noticed.”
He took my hand.
The movement was deliberate, though nervousness showed beneath it.
