I carried a small bowl to the couch and fed him because sitting upright made the pain spike. Noah objected twice, then glared while opening his mouth for every spoonful.
“This is humiliating.”
“This is dinner.”
“I can hold a spoon.”
“You can barely focus on one.”
“I could attempt it.”
“Tomorrow.”
He ate enough for the next dose of medication.
When I lay behind him again, the pain finally began to ease.
His body softened against mine.
“Three,” he whispered.
“Good.”
“The money is fixed.”
“The claim is approved.”
“You’re less tight.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
His hand searched under the blanket until it found mine.
“You’ve been braced for another impact since I woke in the hospital.”
The observation surprised me.
“I thought that was you.”
“Both of us.”
He brought my hand to his chest.
“You can rest too.”
“I am resting.”
“No. You’re waiting for me to need something.”
“I like being useful.”
A tired smile touched his mouth.
“That is dangerous.”
“Yes.”
