In March, Noah's sleepwalking stopped.

The change should have been uncomplicated. He had followed the schedule, reduced caffeine, worn the guard, and learned to recognize the pressure that preceded bad nights. He woke where he had fallen asleep. The bruises faded. His mouth healed.

Adrian was relieved.

He was also restless.

Without emergencies to manage, he found smaller tasks. He packed Noah's lunch when studio ran late. He replaced a cracked phone charger before Noah noticed. He reorganized the refrigerator, then reorganized the cleaning supplies.

One Sunday Noah found him ironing a shirt Noah did not know could be ironed.

"You can stop," Noah said.

Adrian glanced up. "It is wrinkled."

"I mean all of it."

The iron paused.

Noah sat on the edge of the bed. "I love that you take care of me. But sometimes it feels like you're waiting for the next problem so you can be necessary."

Adrian set the iron upright. "Do you want me to do less?"

"I want you to let me care for you too."

"I don't need—"

"Exactly."

Adrian's face closed.

Noah pressed on. "You hide injuries. You skip meals when training gets bad. You act like needing anything is a debt."

"My schedule is under control."

"Your shoulder hurts."

Silence.

Noah had noticed the way Adrian favored his left side after practice, how he stretched when he thought no one watched.

"How long?"

"A week."

"Have you seen the trainer?"

"It is minor."

"That wasn't my question."

Adrian unplugged the iron. "I have selection trials in five weeks. If the team physician restricts me—"

"You could make it permanent by ignoring it."

"You don't understand."

"Then explain."

The words came out sharper than Noah intended. Adrian flinched as if struck, which frightened Noah more than anger would have.

"My father is coming to trials," Adrian said. "He has not watched me race in two years."

There it was. Not ambition alone. A child's old hunger hidden inside a disciplined man.

Noah stood and approached, stopping before he touched him. "May I?"

Adrian nodded.

Noah placed both hands at his waist. "Do you think winning will make him love you correctly?"

Adrian looked past him. "No."

"Do you think losing will prove he was right to withhold it?"

Adrian's breath caught.

"Maybe."

"That is not a race you can win."

For a while, neither spoke.

"Come with me to the trainer," Adrian said at last.

The injury was tendon inflammation, treatable with rest and physical therapy. Adrian was restricted from rowing for ten days. He accepted the verdict with the expression of a man receiving a prison sentence.

Noah attended the first therapy session. He learned the exercises and counted repetitions with ruthless cheer.

"Eight," he said as Adrian lifted the resistance band. "Your face suggests murder."

"Nine."

"That was eight."

"You were talking."

"I can count and insult you simultaneously."

By the sixth repetition, Adrian's mouth twitched. By the tenth, sweat stood at his temple.

Noah handed him water.

"Thank you," Adrian said.

The words carried more weight than the bottle.

That evening Adrian let Noah cook. The pasta was overdone and the sauce came from a jar. Adrian ate two bowls without correction.

"Care is not a competition," Noah said.

"I know."

"You are allowed to receive it without earning it first."

"I am trying to learn your language."

"This is part of it."

Adrian reached across the table and turned Noah's hand palm up. He kissed the paint stain near his thumb.

"Then teach me," he said.

Noah's lesson began the next morning. Adrian had no training and still woke at five. Instead of getting out of bed, he lay rigid beside Noah as if rest were an endurance event.

"What do you want?" Noah asked without opening his eyes.

"Coffee."

"That is not what I mean."

Adrian was silent.

Noah turned toward him. "You ask me what I need all the time. Try answering."

"I want to stay here."

"Then stay."

"I also want breakfast."

"Conflicting needs. Welcome to humanity."

They compromised by ordering delivery. Adrian disliked the expense but allowed Noah to pay. When the food arrived, they ate pancakes in bed and watched a documentary about a fraudulent art dealer.

Halfway through, Adrian rested his head in Noah's lap.

The position made him look strangely young. Noah ran fingers through his hair and felt Adrian release a breath he seemed to have held for years.

"Is this care?" Adrian asked.

"Yes."

"It feels unproductive."

"That is the point."

Adrian closed his eyes.

For two hours no one improved, achieved, repaired, or earned anything. The world continued anyway.

That afternoon, Adrian called his mother. He spoke Croatian when emotion made English feel too exposed. Noah understood only his own name and the long silence that followed it.

When the call ended, Adrian sat beside him on the couch.

"She wants you to visit this summer," he said.

"Your mother knows about me?"

"Since October."

Noah counted backward. "Before the milk mystery."

"She asked why I learned to cook with cinnamon."

"And you confessed your love?"

"I said my roommate had insomnia."

"Romantic."

"She understood."

The thought of Adrian describing him to family before Noah knew the shape of their relationship made tenderness ache behind his ribs.

"What did she say today?"

Adrian looked down. "That love is not a job I can be fired from for resting."

Noah took his hand. "I like her."

"She will feed you until you regret that."

"Impossible."

Adrian finally smiled.