“You recognized the mistake.”
“After accusing him of treating me like a child.”
“Recovery does not require perfect behavior.”
Noah looked at me.
“I love him.”
The words arrived without warning.
Awake.
Certain.
Chosen.
My breath caught even though he had said them before.
Perhaps because every time was new.
Dr. Whitcomb’s expression softened.
Noah flushed but did not retreat.
“I loved him before I remembered him. Or some part of me did.”
His thumb moved over my knuckle.
“When he sat beside me in the hospital, I did not recognize his face. But I still wanted him to stay.”
I could not trust my voice.
Noah looked at me anyway.
“You were the only person in the room who felt familiar,” he said. “Not familiar because I knew you. Familiar because my body stopped preparing for something terrible.”
I lifted his hand and pressed my mouth to his fingers.
“I love you too.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
He released a breath.
The old word carried a new meaning between us.
Not a demand that he return to the man he had been.
A promise that love could survive change without denying that change existed.
Dr. Whitcomb cleared her throat.
“This is meaningful progress, but I should remind you that I am billing for the hour.”
Noah laughed.
