“I thought it would feel like another test.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“What did it feel like?”
He considered.
“Private.”
The word fit.
“Like something that belonged only to us.”
“It does.”
I cleaned us both.
Noah watched dawn brighten the curtains.
After a while, he said, “I’m hungry.”
I turned toward him.
“Actually hungry?”
“Yes.”
“That may be the most medically encouraging event of the morning.”
He struck my shoulder weakly.
We showered together.
Not for sexual reasons.
Mostly.
The stall was narrow enough that avoiding contact became impossible. Noah stood beneath the warm water while I washed his hair. His eye closed, and he leaned into my fingers.
When I soaped his back, I asked before touching each scar.
He offered me the same care.
His fingers moved over my chest and traced the old pale line beneath my ribs. Then they passed over the abstract black compass rose tattooed there.
He had once said it belonged on a sailor with worse judgment.
Apparently, that opinion had survived the accident.
“I still think this is unnecessarily dramatic,” he said.
“You chose the artist.”
“I had questionable taste.”
“In tattoos?”
