“Sorry,” she whispered.
Noah was awake.
He watched me with an expression I had not seen before.
Not the politeness he offered staff.
Not the careful curiosity he brought to our conversations.
Something warmer.
“You jump like Marlowe,” he said.
I straightened. “You remember Marlowe jumping?”
“No. You told me he’s dramatic.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re dramatic too.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
His mouth curved.
The nurse finished adjusting the pump and slipped out.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
Noah looked at the chair.
“You slept there?”
“Apparently.”
“Looks uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
“Go home tonight.”
The suggestion struck harder than it should have.
“I will.”
“You’re lying.”
“I might.”
“Still lying.”
I studied him.
There were traces of the man I knew in the dry delivery, but I no longer chased resemblance. Dr. Whitcomb had warned me not to turn every expression into evidence.
“I’ll try,” I said.
He accepted that.
