“Different.”
I turned his hand palm-up.
“Sometimes better.”
He watched our fingers.
“I don’t want you pretending any of this is easy.”
“It is not easy.”
“Good.”
I glanced at him.
His mouth curved.
“That sounded terrible.”
“It sounded honest.”
“Is it too early to become difficult in my new role as your partner?”
“You were difficult before the position became official.”
He smiled toward the window.
By the time we reached the yard, fatigue had softened the lines of his face.
He refused the stair lift and admitted halfway up that the refusal had been stupid.
I stayed one step below him.
“No commentary,” he warned.
“I said nothing.”
“Your silence is smug.”
“The cane and I have formed a political coalition.”
He made it upstairs.
On the couch, he raised the footrest and closed his eye before I finished bringing water.
I placed crackers, sliced pear, and his medication within reach.
“Rest.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I love you anyway.”
The casual words stopped me.
Noah opened his eye.
