“You wanting me in public.”
His voice softened.
“I think that’s why the song became ours.”
The insight tightened my chest.
The beginning of our relationship had been private heat and public restraint. Greyhaven was not Denver, but Noah had carried old fear with him—fear learned from family, from strangers, from men who wanted his body in darkness but would not take his hand beneath a streetlight.
That night, I had taken both.
“I remember your face,” he said.
“At the tavern?”
“Yes.”
His breath caught.
“You were frightened too.”
“I was.”
“You kept looking toward the door.”
“Habit.”
“I kissed you in front of everyone.”
“You did.”
“Then we came home and danced again.”
“Under the green lamp.”
The line between his brows eased.
“So the song was there when I chose you.”
“Yes.”
“And when everything was taken.”
My arm tightened around him.
“Not everything.”
“No.”
His hand covered mine.
“It brought me back too.”
The medication began pulling him under.
His words softened.
“How can a song carry all of that?”
