She accepts the pills without argument, watching me over the rim of the glass as she swallows them down. There’s awareness there. Curiosity. Calculation.
“You stayed,” she says.
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods, as if that satisfies something internal. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Like I’ve been hit by a lorry,” she says. “But a polite one.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“You should still rest.”
“I’ve been resting,” she counters. “For days.”
“And you’ll keep doing so.”
She tilts her head. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have to be.”
Her gaze sharpens at that. “Why?”
Because if I stop being sure, this situation spins out of control. Because you don’t know what you’re waking up into. Because I do.
Instead, I say, “Because someone has to keep things from escalating.”
A beat.
“Escalating how?” she asks lightly.
Careful. She’s probing.
“Too much stimulation,” I say. “Too soon.”
She hums. “Funny. I was just thinking things finally feel quieter.”
That shouldn’t irritate me.
It does.
“Your body doesn’t always tell you the full story,” I say. “Especially when it’s been under strain.”
“And your solution is to manage it for me?”
“For now,” I say. “Yes.”