“I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
His gaze dropped.
I wished I had answered differently.
Leah took the sting from the moment. “He used to burn his tongue on cocoa when we were kids. Every winter.”
“I did not.”
“You did. Then you’d stick your tongue under the faucet.”
Noah stared at her. “That sounds disgusting.”
“It was.”
His mouth lifted.
I moved the table within reach.
“Think you can hold the cup?”
His right hand was functional, but weakness in his uninjured side came and went. Some mornings, lifting a fork looked like ordinary effort. Other mornings, his arm seemed detached from intention.
He examined the cup.
“I can try.”
I took off the lid and fitted a sleeve around it.
Noah reached with his right hand. His fingers closed, but the cup tilted.
I steadied the base without taking it away.
He glanced at me.
“Only helping the floor,” I said.
He lifted the drink.
The movement was slow and jerking, but he brought it to his mouth, swallowed, and returned it to the table.
Leah smiled too brightly.
Noah noticed.
“Don’t.”
Her smile faded. “Don’t what?”
“Look like I climbed a mountain.”
“You nearly died two weeks ago. Holding a cup is allowed to impress me.”
His face closed.
Leah looked stricken.
