I kissed him once, then again, letting the truth pass between us in warmth and breath.
When I drew back, tears had reached his cheeks.
“I love you too,” I whispered. “Awake. Asleep. Angry. Terrified. Every day.”
Noah smiled through the tears.
“You are crushing my sandwich anyway.”
I looked down.
My forearm had folded it in half.
Mustard leaked onto the counter.
“I’ll make another.”
“No.”
He picked up the ruined sandwich.
“This one is fine.”
We finished lunch together.
Later, Noah slept with his head on my chest.
I gave the whistle softly into his hair.
Two short notes.
One long.
He answered without waking.
His fingers tightened over my heart.
This time, he did not need words.
Chapter 22
REID
Dr. Whitcomb watched Noah cross her office without the powered chair.
She did not congratulate him.
That was one of the reasons he trusted her.
Praise had become dangerous since the accident. Too much of it turned every ordinary movement into a performance. A successful walk across a room became proof of recovery. A stumble became failure. Noah preferred people who noticed without applauding.
He reached the chair beside mine and lowered himself carefully. The walk from the elevator had stiffened his healing hip, though he tried to conceal it by adjusting the fall of his coat. Joel’s cane rested against his knee, its polished handle facing outward.
He used it only when fatigue made the floor unreliable.
Dr. Whitcomb glanced at it.
“How is your relationship with the cane?”
