“Do you still want tonight?”
“Yes.”
We locked the gate.
Upstairs, dinner was deliberately simple.
Salmon.
Rice.
Steamed vegetables.
No wine.
No elaborate meal designed to make the night feel ceremonial.
We ate beneath the brass pendant lamp while rain gathered in silver threads over the harbor windows.
Noah did not hurry.
Neither did I.
After dinner, he checked his medication schedule. With Dr. Whitcomb’s previous approval, he delayed the sedating dose until later.
He placed his phone facedown.
Turned off the television.
Opened the bedroom window a few inches to let cool air into the room.
I watched him prepare.
Not with a fortress of pillows or a written plan.
With small decisions.
A towel folded near the center of the bed.
Lubricant within reach.
Water on the bedside table.
The green navigation lamp left burning in the hall.
When he was satisfied, Noah stood beside the mattress and looked at me.
“You’re nervous.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you matter.”
“That is emotionally impressive and practically useless.”
I stepped closer.
