“You’re always braced.”
“What?”
“Your stomach. Your shoulders.”
His hand moved over my ribs.
“Even while you sleep.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“No.”
There was enough certainty in the answer that I turned my head.
Noah’s eye was heavy from medication but clear.
“You wait for me to need something,” he said. “Even when you are unconscious.”
“I don’t know how to stop.”
“Start now.”
He lifted my hand and placed it against his chest.
“I’m okay.”
“For tonight.”
“For this minute.”
The distinction mattered.
I breathed.
His heart beat beneath my palm.
Not racing.
Not fading.
Here.
“You came for me,” he said.
“What?”
“In the memory.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“I thought you were.”
His fingers touched my jaw.
“That green light. I thought you had found me.”
Pain moved through me.
