He had known exactly what I needed that morning.
Not encouragement.
Use.
A place in the chain of cause and effect.
“You’re sneaky,” I said.
He looked up.
“What did I do?”
“All of this.”
“The repair?”
“You made me open the yard. Stock count. Then you brought me into a diagnosis you could have done yourself.”
“I could have.”
“You wanted me to know I mattered.”
“I wanted the boat fixed.”
“Liar.”
His eyes warmed.
I watched him wipe a streak of black from his knuckles.
“I love you.”
The words came without preparation.
No special room.
No quiet music.
A workbench between us and Owen swearing at a label printer twenty feet away.
Reid became completely still.
Then his face changed in the way I was learning to recognize—the small surrender when happiness got past his defenses.
“I know what you did,” I said. “You didn’t argue with how I felt this morning. You gave me something that proved the feeling wasn’t everything.”
He put the rag down.
“You did the work.”
“You made room.”
“Noah.”
“I need you to hear me.”
He rounded the bench.
