“Too clinical?”
“No.”
“Unromantic?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
I folded the paper along its existing crease.
“I love you.”
His shoulders dropped.
“That is not practical feedback.”
“It is all I have.”
We locked the yard together.
Caleb and Owen had already left. Noah checked the rear doors while I armed the alarm. At the stairwell, he climbed one step at a time. I followed close enough to catch him without touching.
On the final landing, his hip stiffened.
He held out his hand.
I took it.
Upstairs, dinner waited beneath foil.
The green beans were slightly overcooked. The cod was excellent. Noah had made dill sauce from memory, though he could not recall where he had learned the recipe.
We ate beside the harbor windows.
Neither of us mentioned what would happen afterward.
That made every small sound feel charged.
The scrape of a fork.
The quiet tap of his glass against the table.
The shift of his foot beneath the chair.
When the plates were empty, Noah stood.
“Leave them.”
“I can wash.”
“Later.”
I followed him into the living room.
The lamps were low.
The old green navigation light glowed in the hall.
