ME: Don’t. Let him decide whether he wants to discuss it again.
LEAH: Understood. Tell him I love him.
I put the phone aside.
Noah slept deeply beneath my hand.
The scars from the accident had faded, but they had not disappeared. One pale line curved over his temple. Another vanished into his hair. Bruising no longer marked his face, butthe damage had changed the way I looked at every peaceful breath.
He had been beautiful before the accident.
He was beautiful now.
Love had altered its shape.
It had not diminished.
When I woke him for bed, he could barely keep his eye open.
I helped him brush his teeth and change. He stood beside the mattress in dark briefs, sleep-heavy and trusting, while I pulled back the covers.
“You stay,” he murmured.
“I’m only turning off the lights.”
“Come back.”
“I will.”
He was asleep before I reached the doorway.
I cleaned the kitchen, closed the harbor windows against the cold, and stacked the photographs Noah had left scattered on the coffee table.
The images of us lay near the top.
Noah laughing with his head on my shoulder.
Noah in a suit beside me at Leah’s wedding.
Noah in our bed, bare-chested beneath white sheets, flushed and unmistakably cherished.
He had been studying them.
Trying alone to understand what years of intimacy had meant.
I placed the photographs beside his memory journal.
No shame.
No hiding.
The following day, if he wanted, we would talk again.
When I climbed into bed, Noah shifted toward me automatically.
His head settled on my chest.
His right arm crossed my stomach.
