“How many tattoos do you have now?” she asked softly, her gaze on the wing on his chest.
“Five.”
She nodded slowly, her dark eyes connecting with his. “Will you tell me about them?”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be going to sleep?”
“Not according to Graham,” she quipped, and her cheeks flushed again.
He cleared his throat. “You know about this one,” he said, pointing to the one on his forearm. The mountain with the wordsthe sun will rise and we will try againwas the one he and his brother had gotten together after summiting Mt. Rainier for the first time.
“I know about most of them,” she agreed. “But I still like hearing you talk about them.” She touched the compass on his right shoulder. “Remind me when you got this one?”
He tried not to focus on the small pad of her fingertip against his skin. “That was my third. I’ve had it for a few years.”
“What does it mean?”
“Guidance and protection.”
She made a littlehmmnoise and his chest tightened. It was too quiet in the dim room and she was so damnclose.
“The mountain was your first and this was your third. Which was your second?”
He held up his left arm, his muscles flexing as he bent his elbow to display the roman numerals on the inside of his bicep.
“Oh,” she said quietly. She definitely remembered that one.
Nathan’s birthday.
Her eyes dropped to the new one on his chest again. Before she could ask about it, Noah set his book down and flipped off the lamp next to his side of the bed. “That’s enough for tonight.”
He lay down flat on his back, his eyes on the dark ceiling. She shifted beside him, her arm brushing his as she moved.
“Good night, Noah.”
“Good night, Mia.”
When Noah woke up the next morning, he knew immediately something wasn’t right. Mia was still beside him, but she was curled up in a ball, the covers thrown off, her hands in tight fists.
“Mia?” He leapt out of bed and went to her side, crouching down by her face. “Are you okay?”
She winced. “I—I’m fine. I’m just having some pain.”
“What do you need? Medicine? Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“I took medicine a few hours ago. It hasn’t helped much. But sometimes it just takes time.”
He’d only seen her like this twice—once when she was first diagnosed and then again when she was put on the transplant list. But he’d also never lived with her, so he wasn’t sure how bad it was. “Is this normal?”
She swallowed. “No. I mean, it happens sometimes, when I have a flare. But not often.”
“What can I do?”
A tear slipped from her eye and he went rigid, his own eyes burning. His breath became shallow as a vise closed around his chest, and he stood. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”