He walked over to the rocking chair and stood beside me.

He set his hand on my shoulder, his thumb resting near the base of my neck.

His touch was warm and grounded.

I reached up and touched his wrist, feeling the pulse under his skin.

The sharp, icy wedge that had driven between us in the ER waiting room was gone, melted away not by speeches or promises, but by five days of quiet, relentless action.

He had gotten up at two in the morning every night this week to give June her bottle without waking me.