He turns his head. His jaw has relaxed — not entirely, but that muscle that was jumping has stopped, and he's looking at me with his face doing nothing. No joke. No deflection. Just — open.
"Yeah."
"I don't know what happens now."
"No."
"I mean — I don't. I don't have a plan for this." I gesture between us. At the floor. At the garbage bag. At whatever this is. "I had a plan for your fridge. I had a plan for how I hold my face when your mother calls. I had a plan for where I stand when I change your bandage because if I stand too close you can smell my shampoo and if I stand too far it looks like I don't care, and I—"
I stop. Because I'm hearing myself.
"You planned where you stand when you change my bandage."
"You weren't supposed to know that."
"Nora."
"What."
"The shampoo thing." His voice is quiet. That particular Ethan quiet — the one that's louder than shouting. "I noticed. Every time."
A hitch catches in my chest. Not the dramatic kind — more like a gear that slips and then re-engages at a different speed.
"You—"
"The one you use smells like — coconut? Something with coconut. And when you'd lean in to check the bandage I would—" He stops. Swallows. His Adam's apple moves. "I would hold my breath. Because if I breathed in I'd —"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
My skin goes hot. All of it. From my collarbone to the backs of my hands. From the picture forming in my head: him on the couch, my fingers on his hip, the bandage, the clinical efficiency I performed — and underneath, him holding his breath. Because of coconut shampoo.
Three weeks of standing at the correct distance. Three weeks of not looking into his eyes during changes. Three weeks ofThereand stepping back.
And he was holding his breath the whole time.
"That's —" I start.
"Stupid? Yeah."
"I was going to say unfair."
"Unfair."
"You can't — you can't tell me you were smelling my shampoo and feeling things while I was trying to be professional and competent about your surgical site—"
"You organized my fridge."
"That's not the same—"
"You alphabetized my spice rack."
"It needed—"
"I have four spices."
I open my mouth. Close it. My face is doing things I can't control — a pull at the corners that wants to be a smile and doesn't have permission yet.
"Salt doesn't count as a spice," I say.
