I found it and came back. Red had shifted to face me, his hand resting on his knee. I sat down closer than before and took his wrist, turning it gently.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much. Just tight."
I unwound the old bandage slowly, keeping my touch light. The skin underneath was healing but still angry, the surgical site pink and puckered.
I cleaned the area with antiseptic and dabbed it dry, then wrapped fresh gauze around his palm, around his wrist, tucking the end under so it would hold.
When I finished, I didn't let go. His fingers curled against my palm, and I held his hand in both of mine.
"I'm going to tell Derek," Red said. "Tomorrow, probably."
"Do you want me there?"
Red nodded and leaned his head against my shoulder. "Stay with me for a while? Before you go to the guest room?"
"Yeah." I pressed my cheek against his hair. "I can do that."
We sat like that until the house went dark around us, not talking, just breathing together, while the photos on the walls watched over us.
I woke up on Derek's couch with a crick in my neck and Joel's head on my shoulder.
We'd never pulled out the bed. At some point in the night we'd just stopped talking and let our eyes close, and now here we were, tangled together on cushions that weren't meant for two grown men. My back was going to hate me for this. My hand was throbbing under the fresh bandage.
I didn't move.
Joel's breath was slow against my collarbone. His hair was flattened on one side, his mouth slightly open. One of his hands rested on my chest, fingers curled loosely into my shirt. Gray morning light came through the curtains, and the house was quiet in a way that meant the kids were already gone.
I turned my head just enough to press my lips to his hair. He stirred, made a small sound, and then his hand tightened in my shirt.
"Hey," I said against his temple.
"Mm." He shifted, wincing. "My neck."
"Yeah. Mine too."
He lifted his head slowly, blinking. His eyes found mine, and he smiled anyway. Then he leaned up and kissed me, unhurried, his hand sliding up to cup the side of my face. He tasted like sleep and the stale coffee we'd drunk too late last night.
The kitchen light clicked on. Derek's footsteps moved across the tile, and the coffeemaker started its familiar gurgle. Joel glanced toward the sound, then back at me.
"I'm going to tell him this morning."
Joel's hand was still curled in my shirt. His thumb moved once, a small stroke. Then he nodded.
"Give me a few minutes to start it," I said. "Then come in."
He kissed me once more and sat up. "I'll be here."
I found Derek at the kitchen table with his coffee and his phone, scrolling through something with the blank expression of a man who wasn't really reading. He looked up when I came in.
"Coffee's fresh," he said. "Cups are where they always are."
I poured myself a cup and sat down across from him. The kitchen was cluttered with evidence of family life: Owen's drawings on the fridge, Lily's soccer schedule pinned to a corkboard, a calendar with Sarah's handwriting marking dentist appointments and school events.
"How'd you sleep?" Derek asked.
"Okay." I wrapped my good hand around the mug. "Derek, I need to tell you something."