I removed my boots and fitted myself onto the narrow couch behind him.
The furniture had never been designed for two grown men and an elderly dog, but over the years we had perfected the arrangement. Noah rolled onto his side. I settled behind him, careful of his healing hip, and drew him against my chest.
My palm rested lightly over his ribs.
“Hair,” he murmured.
I combed my fingers through it.
“Back.”
I rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades.
The tension left him one muscle at a time.
“Any better?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Still five.”
“Do we call the on-call number?”
“Not yet.”
I checked the time.
“If it remains at five for another hour, we call.”
“All right.”
He accepted the limit without arguing.
That, more than the walking or the work downstairs, showed how much he had changed. Recognizing the edge of his capacity had become another form of control.
Rain scented the apartment through the old window frames. Beneath it lingered the warm, earthy smell of the lentil casserole Noah had put in the oven before the headache worsened.
The timer sounded from the kitchen.
Noah groaned.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Sorry.”
“For cooking dinner?”
“For ruining it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
I kissed the scar near his temple and left him long enough to remove the casserole.
He had forgotten the salt.
It was still edible.
