“Pain?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
“A little.”
“Regret?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
Warmth filled my chest.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You wanted more.”
“Yes.”
His mouth tightened.
I touched the back of his hand.
“Wanting more does not make stopping a failure.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“More than I did before.”
He retrieved the folded rules and uncapped the pen he had left on the side table.
Beneath the final line, he wrote:
STOPPED AT TEN. STILL GOOD.
He showed me.
“That is accurate.”
Noah leaned over and kissed my cheek.
“Next time, twelve minutes.”
“Reckless.”
“Medical progress.”
He stood carefully.
“Dishes?”
“Together.”
