“I’m going downstairs.”
His gaze returned.
“You don’t have to.”
“I have work.”
“That sounds like leaving.”
“It is not.”
I sat again.
“Do you want me here?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then say that.”
“Stay.”
I stayed.
Noah shifted until his head rested against my thigh.
I moved my fingers through his hair.
For ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
His breathing slowed.
Then he said, “The article made me tired.”
“The photograph?”
“Not only.”
“The statistics.”
His body tightened beneath my hand.
“I read more.”
“When?”
“After I came upstairs.”
My stomach sank.
“What did you search?”
“Long-term effects of severe brain injury.”
“Noah.”
“I know.”
