Noah stared at me.
Maeve touched my forearm. “He did not dissolve.”
“I was asking about the dressing.”
“It’s dry.”
She handed me a written note.
“He needs a quiet morning. Basic range-of-motion only. Food, water, rest.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Noah said.
Maeve continued as if he had not spoken. “And Reid needs to let you test your limits without announcing each one before you reach it.”
“I do not announce.”
Noah and Maeve exchanged a look.
I opened the door for her.
Once she left, the apartment became quiet again.
Noah shifted deeper into the couch.
He wore dark shorts and no shirt. The brace covered most of his left arm, but the rest of him was bare from the waist up. Yellowing bruises spread across his ribs and side. The surgical scars had begun to fade, though the line near his temple remained raised and pale.
I had known every inch of his body.
The slope of his shoulders. The small mark beneath his right collarbone. The faint trail of hair down his stomach. The exact place at his waist where my fingers could make him laugh even when he was determined not to.
Or I had known him.
Now the sight of him held two contradictory truths. He was the man I had touched in darkness without needing to look. He was also a person whose skin I had no right to assume I knew.
Noah caught me standing in the doorway.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You stopped.”
“I was checking whether you were pale.”
“My color?”
“You look washed out.”
“I’m always pale.”
“You tan during summer.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
His right hand moved across his chest, suddenly conscious of being uncovered.