“I wish I had.”
“You were at the hospital when I woke.”
“Eventually.”
“You came when they called.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe I wasn’t wrong.”
His eye filled.
“Maybe some part of me knew you would find me.”
I kissed him.
The touch began softly.
It became deeper only because he followed.
Noah shifted closer. His mouth opened beneath mine, and his hand moved behind my neck.
Heat stirred between us, but the kiss asked for nothing.
It carried gratitude.
Grief.
The fear of the day transformed into contact we both understood.
When the length of his body pressed against mine, I paused.
“Head?”
“Two.”
“Tired?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Not everything.”
“All right.”
