He breathed through the pain.
I waited until his face eased.
“Would you like the room quiet?” I asked.
After several seconds, he nodded.
Leah put away her phone.
We sat without speaking.
Noah’s right hand remained near the tea. His fingertips rested against the cardboard sleeve. I wanted to move the cup before he knocked it over. I wanted to adjust the blanket where it had twisted around his hip. I wanted to touch the line between his brows until it smoothed.
I did nothing.
Eventually, he opened his eyes.
“Cake?”
I looked at him.
He pointed toward the café bag.
“You brought cake.”
“I did.”
“What kind?”
“Lemon.”
He considered it. “Do I like lemon?”
“You like cake.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Leah laughed quietly.
I cut a small piece with a plastic fork and placed it on a plate.
“You liked lemon,” I said. “Past tense only because I don’t know what you like now.”
He took a bite.
His expression remained serious while he chewed.
Then he took another.
Leah leaned toward me. “Mountain,” she whispered.
I looked away to hide my smile.
By noon, Noah could barely keep his eyes open.
The ward enforced a rest period after lunch, and even without the rule, he was losing the battle against exhaustion.
Leah brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead.
