He released my hand to gesture, then immediately reached for me again.
“It feels like I’m about to fail an examination no one told me I was taking.”
“There is no examination,” I said.
“I know you say that.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He turned to me.
The fear in his expression did not come from believing I would deliberately hurt him.
That made it worse.
“I remember enough to know we understood each other,” he said. “Every touch. Every preference. We knew when to slow down. When to stop. When the other person wanted more.”
“We can learn again.”
“You already learned me once.”
“I am learning you now.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“There is no wrong if we communicate.”
“What if I panic?”
“We stop.”
“What if you’re disappointed?”
“I’ll manage it.”
His jaw tightened.
“You say that as if disappointment would not hurt.”
“It might.”
The answer surprised him.
I brought his hand between both of mine.
“I am capable of wanting something and feeling disappointed when it does not happen. That does not make me entitled to it. My feelings can belong to me without becoming your responsibility.”
Dr. Whitcomb leaned back slightly.
“That distinction is important.”
Noah looked between us.
“I also don’t understand why pain frightens me when I trust him.”
“Because trust is only one system involved,” Dr. Whitcomb said. “Your body learned for weeks that movement could cause pain. Medical care caused pain. Being transferred caused pain. Unexpected touch caused pain. Even necessary treatment sometimes hurt.”
