The next day, I woke to the smell of bacon sizzling in the pan and the whir of the fan above the wood stove. First Noah ground fresh coffee, then came the sound of a knife chopping against the cutting board and it stirred my curiosity.
He’d left a giant t-shirt on the bed for me, and a pair of wool socks, which I slid on my feet before entering the kitchen to the sight of him slicing potatoes to make home fries. Next, he dropped raw eggs from what seemed a great height into a pot of steaming water, to poach them (did he know that’s how I liked them cooked?), and slipped slices of sour dough into the toaster before turning to squeeze fresh orange juice.
His was the hard, muscled body of a warrior, and after yesterday, I could easily imagine him galloping across the battlefield on his hors
