But we'd made promises to each other, not just the ones at our wedding, but the harder ones. The ones about honesty. About asking for help. About not pretending to be okay when we weren't.
"Today was hard," I admitted. "My hands have been awful since I woke up. I dropped my toothbrush twice. I couldn't button my cuffs." I flexed my fingers, watching the tremor ripplethrough them. "Some days I feel like I'm fighting a war I've already lost."
Charlotte didn't rush to reassure me. She didn't offer platitudes or empty optimism. She just nodded slowly, her expression open and listening.
"I know," she said simply. "I could tell when you came downstairs this morning. You had that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're trying to convince yourself you're fine when you're actually one minor inconvenience away from throwing something."
"I don't throw things."
"You threw a sock at the dresser last Tuesday."
"That was different. The sock was being difficult."
Her lips twitched. "The sock."
"It wouldn't cooperate."
"Socks rarely do." She took my hands in hers, holding them gently despite the tremor. "You're allowed to have hard days, Miles. You're allowed to be frustrated, angry, and tired. That doesn't mean you're losing."
"It feels like losing."
"It feels like living." She squeezed my fingers. "Living with something difficult doesn't make you weak. Fighting through days like today? That makes you the strongest person I know."
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing my forehead to hers. Her hands came up to rest on my chest, right over my heart.
"When did you get so wise?" I murmured.
"I've always been wise. You might have forgotten, but I’ll remind you again."
"I'm glad you are."
"Good." She tilted her face up, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that started soft and turned into something warmer, longer.When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed. "Now. Are we going to eat this pasta, or did we fight the sauce war for nothing?"
"We should probably eat. Waste not, want not."
"Very practical."
"I'm a very practical man."
"You're a very ridiculous man." But she was smiling as she said it, and she kissed me once more before turning back to the stove. "Set the table? I'll handle the plating."
"You don't trust me with plating?"
"I don't trust you with anything breakable right now. Your hands are still staging their rebellion."
"Fair point."
I gathered plates and silverware, moving carefully, focusing on each movement with the deliberate attention that had become second nature. The tremor made everything take longer, but I'd learned to work with it rather than against it. Adaptation wasn't defeat—it was strategy.
We sat down to eat at the small kitchen table, the overhead light casting warm shadows across Charlotte's face. The pasta was good, better than it had any right to be, given the chaos of its creation. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind that didn't need filling.
"Beth wants to do brunch on Sunday," Charlotte said between bites. "Just the two of us. She says I've been too couple-y lately and she needs to reclaim her best friend."
"Too couple-y?"
