Then Noah’s again.
A private rhythm. A promise.
Ethan had gone downstairs to speak with the neonatal specialist and bring me something resembling real coffee. He had kissed my forehead before leaving.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
“You always say ten minutes.”
“This time I mean it.”
“You said that during labor.”
“I was under pressure.”
I smiled despite the pain.
He touched Nora’s cheek with one finger, then Noah’s.
For one quiet second, his face softened in a way I rarely saw anymore.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen and turned it facedown.
“Work?” I asked.
