“Exactly.”
I turned away before he saw me smile.
He had told me he loved me in his sleep.
Not Noah as he was now, fully awake and measuring each unfamiliar feeling. Some deeper part of him had answered an old good-night in the language we once used without thinking.
Love you, Cal.
I had spent half the night awake afterward, holding him and pretending the words did not change everything.
They changed nothing.
They changed the entire world.
I did not tell him.
He deserved to say it consciously before I treated it as a promise.
Still, happiness glowed quietly beneath my ribs.
Noah drank half the coffee before opening his eye fully.
“What are you doing today?”
“A few hours downstairs.”
“Saturday.”
“The ferries remain inconsiderate of weekends.”
“You finished the first two.”
“The next pair arrive Monday. I need to organize the loft and answer messages.”
He reached for toast.
His movements had become quicker over the last week. Not fast. Not as they had been before. But the pauses between intention and action were shortening.
“I thought we could go somewhere after lunch,” I said.
His gaze lifted.
“Where?”
“There’s a sheltered overlook above Bellweather Point. Flat paths. Benches. Usually quiet this time of year.”
“What’s there?”
“An old signal station, gulls, and a view of the entire bay.”
“That sounds like something retired people do.”
“I packed a thermos.”
“Definitely retired.”
“You may stay here.”
