He searched for the word.
“Safe?” I offered.
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Very.”
“Complicated?”
“Not while it was happening.”
I held him closer.
“That matters.”
He turned carefully in my arms.
Our sleep clothes were rumpled.
So were the sheets.
Noah studied my face.
“You stopped asking questions near the end.”
“You were answering me with words and with your body.”
“Did you feel in control?”
“Of myself?”
“Yes.”
“Barely.”
He smiled.
“I liked that.”
“I know.”
“Did I like it before?”
“Yes.”
His fingertips traced my beard.
“I like it now.”
The distinction left the bedroom filled with quiet warmth.
Not a recovered preference.
Not a borrowed history.
His.
