“I tried,” Sinclair says, gazing flatly into the distance like he’s reliving something terrible. “I thought you and Huan were going to kill each other. And she kept punching me afterward. ...To be fair, I guess Huan’s not very nice.”
Michael exhales slowly, feeling easier in Lee’s embrace. He’s not always like this when he gets nervous, or—he didn’t used to be, not as much. It makes him think about who he was and who he’s become, a man who’s discovered he fits into someone else like a puzzle piece. When something goes wrong inside him, he runs to her like a lost dog trying to find its way back home. No, more blindly than that—like he’s searching for the warmth of the sun.
“I’m okay,” he replies quietly. His Hebrew is an embarrassment and he knows it—his accent is so thick it sounds more like he’s speaking Yiddish—but he likes using it with Lee, it makes him feel closer to her. (And they can have private conversations in public.) “You’re back. That’s good. I missed you.”