When I returned, he opened his arms.
I settled beside him with care.
His palm came to rest over my heart.
“You were inside me.”
“Barely.”
“It counts.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted it.”
“Yes.”
“And I stopped where I needed to stop.”
“You did.”
His eyelids drifted lower.
“I think that matters more than going farther.”
“It does.”
His fingertips touched the base of my neck.
“Next time.”
“Maybe.”
A smile formed without his eyes opening.
“You’re learning.”
“We both are.”
He slept for forty minutes.
Then he woke with enough hunger to eat two toasted sandwiches and half a bowl of tomato soup in bed.
We put on a documentary about a shipwreck recovery. By the final segment, Noah’s head had settled onto my shoulder.
He never saw how they raised the wreck.
Neither did I.
I watched him breathe instead.
The following morning, he moved carefully with soreness he did not admit at first.
He entered the kitchen wearing my flannel shirt and soft pants. The sleeves swallowed part of his hands.
“Hip?” I asked.
“Fine.”
