Music is playing softly from his phone.
I drop my bag on the floor beside my desk and place my phone and work tablet on top.
“That’sThe Germs.”
“Yeah.”
“My pop loves punk rock.This song, especially.”
“So does my Da.”
That catches me off guard.
I glance at him again.
Really look this time.
Noah’s focused on the stretch I gave him yesterday, broad shoulders flexing as he rotates his arm carefully.
It’s unexpectedly endearing.
And that’s when he starts pointing things out.
Little things.
Music we both like.
Books he’s read that I’ve mentioned.
Places we’ve both been.
It’s annoying.
Because every time he does it, I feel something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest.
So I shut it down.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Noah.”
Every.
Single.
Time.
And every time he just looks at me like he knows I’m lying.
Today I’m working through shoulder mobility with him again, standing close enough that I can smell the citrus soap he uses.
“This is improving,” I tell him, guiding his arm gently through the motion.
“Good.”
“You’ll be back in full contact soon.”
“Shame.”
I blink.
