Noah moved closer until our foreheads touched.
“I can’t remember taking care of you before,” he whispered. “But I want to learn.”
“You already are.”
“How?”
“You asked.”
His mouth softened.
“That seems small.”
“It isn’t.”
He kissed the corner of one eye.
Then the other.
“You brought me home when I didn’t know you,” he said. “You slept on that terrible hospital couch. You sat beside me while I treated you like a stranger.”
“I would do it all again.”
“I know.”
His hand covered my heart.
“You do not have to prove it every day.”
The words slipped beneath armor I had forgotten I was wearing.
I opened my eyes.
“I need tonight to be quiet.”
“Then it will be.”
“No yard.”
“No yard.”
“No medical conversations unless something changes.”
“Agreed.”
“No insurance.”
“Done.”
“I want dinner under a blanket and some television show neither of us cares about.”
Noah smiled.
“A retired-person evening.”
“Yes.”
“Can I hold you?”
