The words came from somewhere absolute.
Noah cried harder.
I held him until the storm passed through exhaustion.
When his breathing eased, I kissed the side of his head.
“We are not spending the next thirty years grieving a possibility.”
“How do we not?”
“One day.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Everyone says that.”
“Because days are what we have.”
I rubbed his back.
“Tomorrow we ask Dr. Whitcomb about actual risk, not internet summaries. We make a long-term medical plan when you are ready. Advance directives, financial protections, whatever gives you control.”
He listened.
“Then we live.”
“What does that mean?”
“Work. Laundry. Arguments about coffee. Trips. Sex. Replacing the van or not replacing it. Marlowe stealing from the table.”
The dog opened one eye.
“Love is not only the moments we survive,” I said. “It is the ordinary systems that keep a life moving.”
Noah’s face remained against my chest.
“Bills. Dishes. Knowing which side of the bed you take. Changing plans when your head hurts. Calling for help before the fear becomes an entire future.”
He breathed out.
“You make it sound practical.”
“It is.”
“That isn’t romantic.”
“It is the most romantic thing I know.”
He lifted his head.
I wiped his cheeks.
“I fell in love with you inside ordinary days. I intend to keep doing it there.”
His eye searched mine.
“What if you get sick first?”
