The question nearly undid me again.
“Yes.”
We built a nest on the couch.
Badly.
The quilt caught on the lamp. Marlowe attempted to occupy the center. Noah criticized the arrangement of the cushions, then became too tired to correct them.
Rain traveled across the harbor windows.
I served stew in wide bowls and turned on a competition program about people restoring old inns. We kept the volume low.
For the first time since Noah came home, I lay in front.
My back settled against his chest.
His arm circled my waist.
He moved his fingers through my hair while I ate.
The position was awkward.
It was wonderful.
I had always been the outer wall.
The broader body.
The arm around him.
The chest beneath his cheek.
The person who stayed awake when fear arrived.
Now Noah’s breath warmed the back of my neck.
His hand brushed my beard.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying?”
“No.”
“Good.”
We finished dinner.
He set the empty bowls on the floor, where Marlowe immediately attempted an inspection.
“No.”
The dog looked personally wounded.
Noah tightened his arm around me.
