“What should I promise?”
“Tell me when you’re frightened.”
I swallowed.
“Even if I’m already frightened?”
“Especially then.”
“Why?”
“So I don’t think your silence means you’re fine.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
“And I promise to say when the noise gets too loud before my brain shuts the whole building.”
A weak laugh escaped me.
“Electrical metaphor.”
“You understand those.”
“I do.”
His hand slid around the back of my neck.
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
We ate omelets for dinner because they required ten minutes and little effort.
Noah managed half.
By eight, we were in bed.
He curled against me with his head over my heart.
“Hospital smelled wrong,” he murmured.
“Everything there smells wrong.”
“Bed too narrow.”
“Yes.”
“No green lamp.”
“I brought it.”
“I know.”
His arm tightened.
“You brought home to me.”
I kissed his hair.
