Page 69 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
His hand finds my jaw.
Mine finds his shoulder.
We stay there until the tea cools and when we are tired enough, we go to a bed that we share.
No rush.
No noise.
Skin against skin.
The radiator clicks.
His breathing steadies under my cheek.
He falls asleep fast, the way men do when they are back from a long edge.
I stay awake and watch the window.
I count cars.
I listen for feet in the hall.
When sleep comes, it's thin.
The alarm rings ten minutes after I wake up.
Pale light on the ceiling.
His back, warm under my palm.
I stare up and let my mind run where it wants.
How long can I live like this?
How long before a knock at the door?
How long before a patient is a question mark instead of a person?
I hate all of it.
I also know I'm not done with him.
I'm not done with the way he listens when I talk about work, the way he eats what I cook, the way he says my name like he means it.
He turns and looks at me.
“Regrets?” he asks.
“Only about the hour,” I say. “I have an early shift.”
He nods.
He pulls me in, kisses my forehead, then sits up slowly.
He moves like his old wounds remind him to be smart.
In the kitchen, he leaves a slip of paper next to the kettle.
