“At the beginning.”
“And then?”
I reached for his hand, leaving him room to pull away.
He did not.
“We decided to stop several years ago.”
“Why?”
“We were exclusive. We both had tests done. We discussed the risks, looked at the results, and made the decision together.”
His attention fixed on our interlaced fingers.
“You haven’t slept with anyone else.”
“No.”
“Not even after the accident?”
“Not since you kissed me under the green lamp.”
His breath faltered.
“That happened before we were officially a couple.”
“I had confidence in the outcome.”
A small smile surfaced, fragile and brief.
“So after the tests, we never used them?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“Not that I remember.”
He went silent.
I remembered our first conversation about it. Noah had arrived with a page of questions, asked half of them twice, and read every line of the clinic paperwork himself. He had wanted the intimacy, but he had wanted knowledge and choice more.
The man beside me might not remember that decision.
He still deserved to make it.
“I should have talked to you about this sooner,” I said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid any detailed conversation would sound like I expected something from you.”
His fingers tightened.
“But choosing not to tell me is still choosing for me.”
I accepted the truth without resistance.
