By mid-February, Finn’s cast was off, and he was a few sessions into his physical therapy. When I walked in the door on the thirteenth, he was standing shirtless at the microwave.
“Hey.” I kissed his neck, and then, when he turned, his lips. “Mmm. Salty.”
“I just ate some crackers.”
“What’cha making?” I asked.
“Tomato soup. It’s therapy.”
“Ah.”
“Mind if we have a really early dinner?”
“Nope.”
The microwave beeped.
“When we tried this at therapy with pretend soup, it didn’t go very well,” Finn said. “I figured shirtless was better.”
“Cool.” I didn’t want to make a big deal out of that, either, but it kind of was. “Need a hand?”
“I’ll carry it lefty, so I don’t drop it and burn my toes.”
He was barefoot, too, but he did have on sweatpants.
“I got a check today from the city,” Fi
