“It was very effective.”
He laughed and then held his hip.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Medical order?”
“Self-preservation.”
We reviewed the day.
Dr. Whitcomb first.
Felicity at the settlement office.
The sexual-health clinic afterward if Noah still had energy.
He refused the powered chair.
Accepted the cane.
That compromise alone suggested maturity.
Before leaving, we opened the yard with Caleb and Owen.
Noah tested the workboat repair one final time. He signed the service sheet beneath my name.
His handwriting remained less controlled than before the accident, but the signature looked increasingly like his own.
At eight thirty, we drove to the medical center.
Dr. Whitcomb studied Noah the moment he entered.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
He sat across from her desk.
“Is that clinical?”
“It is observational.”
“I had a good evening.”
His cheeks warmed.
She glanced toward me.
I said nothing.
Noah told her about the low mood, the workday, the settlement call, and the memory of the accident no longer causing physical pain when he revisited it.
Then he told her about the sexual progress with more detail than I expected.
Not explicit.
Clear.
He described desire returning, the fear decreasing, the boundary he used, and the fact that stopping had not felt like failure.
