Partner.
The pain remained.
The fatigue remained.
But the silence between us no longer felt undefined.
Noah slept for two hours.
I folded laundry on the floor, answered emails with my laptop balanced on one knee, and put a stew in the oven. I moved through every task as quietly as possible, listening to the rhythm of his breathing beneath the hum of the refrigerator and the muted creaks of the old apartment.
Once, Marlowe shifted.
Noah’s hand moved blindly across the edge of the couch until his fingers found my sleeve.
I moved closer.
The tension in his hand released.
When he woke, darkness had gathered beyond the windows.
He blinked at the dim apartment, disoriented.
“Where?”
“Home.”
His gaze searched until it found me.
“Partner.”
Sleep blurred the word.
“Yes.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Didn’t imagine it.”
“No.”
He pushed himself upright in slow stages.
The cold cloth slipped into his lap.
“How’s your head?”
“Still inconveniently attached.”
“Pain level?”
“Two. Maybe three.”
“Hungry?”
He considered the question with solemn concentration.
“I can smell dinner.”
“That is not the same thing.”
