Something that would fill the apartment with warmth and pretend for a few hours that ordinary life had not become an act of courage.
I browned the meat, spilled flour across the counter, and forgot whether I had salted anything.
Every small mistake felt catastrophic.
By five, stew simmered in the oven.
I showered under water hot enough to redden my skin.
It failed to beat the fear from my shoulders.
When I returned to the bedroom wearing sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt, Noah was awake.
He lay on his side with Marlowe’s head beneath his palm.
Both eyes opened when he saw me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
I sat on the mattress.
“Pain?”
“Two.”
“Vision?”
“Normal.”
“Nausea?”
“Gone.”
“Numbness?”
“No.”
He caught my hand.
“You asked all of that ten minutes ago.”
“I was in the shower for twenty.”
“Then fifteen.”
“Do you know where you are?”
Noah gave me a tired look.
“In bed with a deeply anxious man.”
“Correct.”
His thumb moved over the inside of my wrist.
“I woke up and heard the shower.”
