No wonder he's up at 3am doing push-ups.
It's not insomnia—it's survival.
His body is trying to escape the torture device he refuses to complain about.
"What the hell, RJ?"
He spins, surprise flashing across his face before he shuts it down.
His hands drop to his sides, and I watch him physically rebuild his walls—straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, becoming the soldier instead of the man.
"Dalla. I didn't hear you?—"
"What thehell." I set the plates down on his dresser, not caring that I'm probably ruining the finish. "Your back. That mattress. Why didn't you say something?"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine!" I gesture at the disaster zone he's been calling a bed. "That thing belongs in a landfill. And your scars—they're inflamed. They're probably infected. When's the last time you slept more than an hour?"
His jaw tightens. "I said it's fine."
"And I said stop lying to me." I step closer, and I'm so angry I'm shaking.
Not at him—never at him—but at the situation.
At his stubborn refusal to admit he's hurting.
At the way he keeps sacrificing himself like his comfort doesn't matter. "You're supposed to protect me, right? That's the job?"
"Yes."
"Then how exactly are you going to do that when you're running on no sleep and your back is so fucked up you can barely move?"
Something cracks in his expression. A flash of vulnerability quickly smothered. "I've operated on less."
"I don't care what you've operated on. I care aboutnow. I care about you."
The words hang between us.
I didn't mean to say them—not like that, not so raw and honest—but they're out now and I can't take them back.
RJ goes very still.
"Dalla..."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't give me the 'boundaries' speech again. Don't tell me you're fine. Don't shut me out like you've been doing for three days." I take another step, and now I'm close enough to see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. "I'm not asking for anything except for you to stop punishing yourself. Just... let me help. Please."
He's silent for a long moment.
His eyes search my face, looking for something—I don't know what.
An angle. A catch. Some reason not to trust what I'm offering.
"What exactly are you proposing?" he asks finally.
"Trade mattresses with me."
"No."
