Pillow Talk

It’s late at night and they’re lying in bed when she notices it. She reaches across his chest and fingers the silver chain around his neck, traces the shape of the symbol where it sits just underneath his collarbone. He watches her through half lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth soft. 

“Have you always been religious?”

Noah hesitates just a beat too long before he answers, and that hesitation reveals to Talia everything he doesn’t explicitly say when he tells her, “Not remotely.” 

“Mmm, so you’re a poser?” She teases him with a light smile, moving her finger from his collarbone to a spot lower on his chest flirting with the area where she knows things start to get patchy.

His chuckle is low and throaty, and she knows it’s from her touch as much as from her question. “Near death experiences will do that to you.” He shrugs, shoulders lifting slightly and then falling heavily like everything below them is weighted. 

“Luckily it was only a near-death experience,” Talia murmurs, kissing a spot on his sternum.

Noah's eyes drift closed at the touch of her lips. When he opens them again, there's something vulnerable there that wasn't present before. He nudges his arm towards hers using mostly the movement in his shoulders, his hand flopping limply onto the top of hers where it sits on his chest. 

"An attempt at divine insurance," he says finally. "It was my mother's idea."

He falls silent, and Talia doesn't push. Instead, she traces the outline of the medal with her fingertip, the metal cool against her skin despite having been warmed by his body. She waits, watching the subtle changes in his expression.

"Saint Christopher," he offers after a long moment, his voice softer. "Patron saint of travelers."

Talia shifts closer, draping part of her body over his. She works one leg between his, careful not to bump the tube running from his lower abdomen to the leg bag. His legs, soft and pliable from years of disuse, make it easy. "Fitting. You traveled a lot for work, right?"

Noah's lips quirk up at one corner. "That's not why she chose it."

"No?" Talia prompts gently. Her hand glides from the medal to his shoulder, then down his arm, kneading softly as she goes, feeling the muscle fade from toned to slack.

He watches her hand travel, and for a while, he seems content to let the conversation lapse and stop there. His own hand comes up to her face, brushing over her bottom lip with the back of his knuckles, his fingers curled limply, in a gesture that sends warmth spiraling through her. 

"He's also the patron saint against sudden death," Noah finally says, his eyes focused on her mouth.

"Ah," Talia murmurs. She leans in, kisses him softly. "Hence the near part of the phrase ‘near-death experience’, right?” 

His chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. Even though it made him laugh, he’s actually not sure she meant it as a joke. But that’s been his experience with Talia for several weeks now. She makes him want to laugh unexpectedly, even at – especially at – the previously unlaughable things.

He takes a moment before he turns his expression more serious. "It wasn’t for work. I was coming back from a ski trip with the guys. Just a quick weekend out at Eldora and back. I was driving through the night to make it to work by 8am on Monday." He takes a breath, and Talia can see him deciding how much to share. It isn’t like they’ve never talked about this, but Noah hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about the finer details either. He’ll drop breadcrumbs – October, four years, a car wreck – but nothing substantial, and Talia’s not usually one to push. “It was the middle of the night and a deer jumped out in front of me.” 

His right leg, the one underneath hers, suddenly jerks in a spasm. She flashes him an Oops kind of look, like her legs being entwined with his might have set it off. He shakes his head at her silent non-question question. “Good timing, huh?”

Talia smiles and moves her hand from where it had started to drift lower back up to his chest. “Go on,” she encourages quietly, pushing more than she ever has. 

Noah exhales slowly. "Not much else to tell. I swerved but still hit the deer. My car rolled. Woke up two days later with a spinal cord injury." He says it matter-of-factly, but Talia can feel the weight of all he's not saying. "Mom showed up at the hospital with this." His knuckles touch the medal briefly. "Said Saint Christopher must have been watching over me, that I was spared for a reason." His lips quirk up at one corner. "The thing is, not one of us has ever been religious, much less Catholic."

Talia laughs softly against his skin. "Religious conversion by trauma?"

"Something like that," he says, his smile warming his eyes. "Mom went full spiritual seeker after the accident. I got Saint Christopher. My sister got crystals."

"Do you believe it though?" Talia asks, her voice soft.

Noah doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches for her and hooks his wrist around her arm, then weakly tugs her closer until she’s half-draped across his chest. His hand threads through her hair; his limp fingers occasionally catch in her curls. 

"I believe," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "that I'm still trying to figure out what that reason might be." 

He shifts slightly—not his body, which remains still—but a faint lift of his shoulders, the only movement he can offer. It's enough to bring his face closer. His breath is warm against her skin.

"Though lately," he murmurs, lips brushing her forehead, "I have some theories."

The implication in his words makes her cheeks warm. 

"What about you?" he asks after the silence between them has stretched comfortably. "Any life-altering moments I should know about?"

Talia tenses slightly, not expecting the question to be turned back on her. Just like her – or maybe because of her own habit – he’s also not pushed her much about her past, though he’s picked up from offhand comments that it isn’t as white bread as she likes to pretend. She hesitates, and he notices, his hand pausing in her hair.

"You don't have to tell me," he says, giving her an easy out.

She considers taking it like usual, changing the subject, but there’s something about the way he’s let himself be soft with her tonight. It feels like it deserves more than her usual deflection.

"I had a daughter," she says, the words coming out in a rush, as if she might lose her nerve if she slows down. Then she falls silent, her breath catching.

Of all the things he was expecting, that one wasn’t even on his radar. But he tries not to show it. Instead, Noah waits, his hand resuming its halting movement through her hair. When she doesn't continue, he asks, "When?"

Talia shifts, resting her chin on his chest to look at him. "She's nine now." The words feel strange in her mouth—both familiar from her private thoughts and foreign being spoken aloud.

"Do you see her?" Noah's question is gentle, without judgment.

Talia's eyes drift to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. "It's an open adoption. I get pictures. Letters." She swallows the lump in her throat. It doesn’t make sense to feel emotional. It isn’t fair. Because in the grand scheme of things, it ended up being the best thing for everyone involved. Yet her eyes still sting whenever she’s mentioned. "Her name is Eliza."

Noah's hand moves to trace the curve of her spine with his knuckles, trying to offer comfort without saying anything contrite or overwrought. "That must be hard," he says simply.

"Yes." The single word contains multitudes. "And no." She shifts again, restless now, and sits up slightly, drawing the sheet around her. "It was the right choice. I was nineteen."

When she falls silent again, Noah doesn't immediately fill the space. He watches her, giving her time. His hand finds hers where it rests against the mattress. He can’t squeeze it or feel it, only see it. But she can – and she does. 

"I've never told anyone I've dated," she admits after a long moment. "It's this... enormous thing that happened, that shaped everything about who I am, but it's invisible."

"Is that why you work with kids?" Noah asks after a long moment of silence. He, too, knows what it’s like to try and fill an unfillable void. 

A moment of surprise crosses her face, as if she hadn't expected him, in a matter of minutes, to make the connection that it’d taken her years to make. "Maybe," she says. "Probably. Though I didn't realize the connection at first."

She looks down at their joined hands, then back to his face. "I was afraid to tell you. People make assumptions, judgments. Or they get uncomfortable and don't know what to say."

"I understand something about that," Noah says with a hint of wry humor, his eyes briefly glancing toward the bulky wheelchair next to his bed.

Talia follows his gaze, then looks back at him with a small smile. "I guess we both have our before and after moments."

Noah tugs gently on her hand, coaxing her back down. As she settles beside him, he shifts just slightly, shoulders tilting in that familiar, deliberate way that signals effort more than motion. 

“It’s late,” he murmurs, suddenly aware of the time in a way he hasn’t been all night. “I should probably get off my back.”

Talia lifts her head, catching the quiet in his voice, the way his eyes hold hers just a second longer. Then she moves, pushing back the covers, rising to her knees beside him.

“Okay,” she says gently and with an easy smile – of course it’s easy now that the heat is off her for a moment. “Let’s do it.”

He doesn’t need to say more. He can’t help much, not really. But she’s done this with him once before, earlier, awkward and careful. Now her hands move with more certainty.

She starts at his far shoulder, slipping one hand beneath it and the other across his chest. His body is solid under her touch, heavy. She braces, then rocks him gently toward her, just enough to roll his torso. One leg follows with a slight drag of fabric against the sheets and she reaches to adjust it, then pulls a pillow in behind his back for support.

Noah exhales slowly, the tension in his face easing once he’s settled on his side.

She smooths the blanket back over him, then curls in close, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. His arm rests loosely around her waist, the weight of it more passive than holding, but still anchoring.

"Tell me about her," Noah says quietly after a moment. "Eliza."

The name in his mouth makes Talia's heart constrict. "She likes horses," she says after a moment. "And space. Her last letter said she wants to be an astronaut veterinarian."

Noah's laugh is gentle. "Ambitious."

"Just a bit." Talia smiles, her finger tracing idle patterns on his chest again. "She has my eyes. Her father's smile." The words come easier now. "She's happy. That's what matters."

"And you? Are you happy?" Noah's question is soft but direct.

Talia considers this, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. "I'm getting there," she says honestly.

It’s strange to say it out loud after so many years of keeping Eliza’s existence so close to her heart. But now, in this moment, actually sharing it with someone who fundamentally understands what it means to have life suddenly split into two distinct chapters – even if their chapters are vastly different – that’s new.

She feels him press a kiss on the top of her head. They lie in comfortable silence, and eventually Talia lets her eyes drift shut.

"Noah?" she whispers after a while.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you for asking about her. Most people wouldn't.”

He kisses the top of her hair again. "Thank you for telling me."

Talia's breathing begins to slow, her body growing heavier against his as sleep approaches. Noah watches her, his eyes tracing the contours of her face in the dim light. Just as he thinks she might have drifted off, she speaks again, her voice thick with approaching sleep.

"You know what I think?" she murmurs.

"What's that?" he asks softly.

"I think maybe this is it." Her eyes flutter open briefly and she’s surprised to see he’s tilted his head down to look at her. Her brown eyes meet his green ones. "Maybe this is the reason.”

Something shifts in Noah's expression – surprise, followed by a tenderness so raw it makes Talia's chest ache. He lifts his hand, slowly, deliberately, led by the flex of his wrist more than the fingers themselves. His hand is curled, fingers mostly limp, but he brings it to her cheek with quiet intent. The backs of his knuckles graze her skin first, and then, with careful control, he angles his wrist just enough to let the soft edge of his thumb brush across her cheekbone. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do.

Eventually sleep begins to claim them both. Before she drifts off for real this time, Talia's fingers find their way back to the Saint Christopher medal resting against his skin. "I'm glad your mom gave you this," she murmurs, "even if you're not religious."

Noah smiles in the darkness, his hand covering hers where it rests against the medal. "Me too," he admits. "Though if you tell her that, I'll deny it entirely."

The last thing Talia remembers before drifting off is the sound of his quiet laughter and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm—the most sacred thing she's felt in years, religious or not.