He lifted my hand and kissed it.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Small steps.”
His eyes shone.
“I can do small steps.”
We sent Marian the decision.
She replied fifteen minutes later with three vehicle models, two safety-rating reports, and a note that she had already asked the insurer whether funds could be redirected toward a crew configuration.
Reid stared at the message.
“I truly am in love.”
I kicked his ankle beneath the table.
The weeks that followed did not become easy.
They became steadier.
There was a difference.
Marian transformed the office.
Invoices stopped migrating into toolboxes. Parts arrived before anyone swore about them. Customers received updates without calling six times. Reid spent more hours on the floor and fewer at the desk.
Caleb and Owen looked less tired.
So did Reid.
The new work platforms arrived and immediately became part of the yard. Battery banks no longer required two men and a bad decision. The rolling stools were used for work approximately half the time.
I returned to a morning schedule.
Three hours on good days.
Two on harder ones.
Lunch upstairs.
Rest.
Sometimes another hour late in the afternoon.
I learned to stop before words became inaccessible.
I learned that irritability could be pain wearing a different coat.
I learned to text Reid one word—amber—when the day became too loud.
He learned not to arrive running unless I added red.
Dr. Celeste Mercer became the only person who could ask me a question and remain silent long enough that I answered honestly.
