Reid’s mouth softened into relief.
“There you are.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
He kept one arm around me while reaching for the kettle.
“You can let go.”
“No.”
“You need both hands.”
“I have developed skills.”
He opened a cabinet with his free hand.
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast.”
“You cannot cook while attached to me.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He found oats, then discovered the milk remained in the refrigerator.
I waited.
He looked toward it.
Then at me.
“You may retrieve the milk.”
“You said you had skills.”
“I have boundaries.”
I laughed again, and this time the sound did not hurt as much.
By the time we ate oatmeal with pears and too much honey, the medication had dulled the headache to a two.
The sadness remained, but it no longer consumed everything around me.
We showered separately because steam sometimes worsened my head and because showering together had recently become less efficient than either of us pretended.
At the apartment door, Reid stopped me.
“You do not have to work today.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
