“I know.”
He took another breath.
“I’m hungry.”
The abrupt change made me smile.
“Dinner upstairs?”
“I still owe you meatloaf.”
“You forgot last night.”
“I became distracted.”
“I remember why.”
Color rose across his cheeks.
“We can cook together.”
We closed the yard soon afterward.
Upstairs, rain streaked the windows while the apartment filled with the scent of rosemary, onion, mustard, and butter.
Noah peeled potatoes at the counter. I mixed beef, breadcrumbs, herbs, grated onion, and seasoning in a steel bowl. Marlowe positioned himself between us with the strategic precision of an animal who understood falling food.
Noah worked carefully. He had learned to brace his forearm against the counter without loading the injured shoulder. The walking pole waited beside the refrigerator.
“Given the negative rapid results,” he said, “some activities are now irresponsible only on an extremely technical level.”
I glanced over. “Which activities?”
“You know which.”
“I’m requesting precision.”
His knife paused over a potato.
“Oral sex.”
“You are currently holding a sharp object.”
“I am capable of discussing sex and holding a knife.”
“Today has produced evidence to the contrary.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“We did it before the tests.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t pressure me.”
“I should have discussed the risk first.”
“You gave me so many opportunities to stop that it began to resemble a train schedule.”
