I found him perched on my side of the mattress, surrounded by everything that had once lived in the bedside drawer.
Receipts. Charging cords. A flashlight. An incomplete deck of cards. Loose batteries. A small notebook neither of us remembered buying.
And a bottle of lubricant.
His face was pink.
I leaned against the doorframe. “Should I be worried?”
“No.”
“That answer would be more convincing if you weren’t dismantling the furniture.”
He picked up the flashlight, examined it gravely, then placed it beside the cards.
“I was looking for something.”
“What?”
“I’m not entirely certain anymore.”
“That narrows it down.”
He looked up.
The nap had eased some of the fatigue around his eyes, but embarrassment had replaced it, visible in the tension of his mouth and the way he rubbed his palms over his thighs.
I closed the door and sat beside him.
“Tell me.”
He stared at the clutter.
“Maeve asked whether you and I had discussed sexual health.”
“All right.”
“And I realized we hadn’t.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“I found that.” He gestured toward the lubricant. “But there aren’t any condoms.”
Understanding settled between us.
“You searched for them.”
“Only in the bedroom and bathroom.”
“The two leading habitats of condoms.”
His mouth twitched, but the humor did not last.
“I thought we must have used them before.”
“We did.”
He turned toward me. “For how long?”
