We finish the noodles slowly, neither of us in a rush. The warmth clings to my hands through the cup, and the steam curls up between us, softening the chill that seeps in through the car windows. Outside, the minimarket glows under harsh white light, casting long shadows onto the frozen pavement. Inside the car, everything feels quieter, softer.
I tell him, out of nowhere, about the bicycle. How Paul rides one to and from work, how it's cheap and fast and maybe something I should try too. Noah listens with that usual attentive silence of his, then simply says, "I can help with that, if you want."
