She wanted to point out that he'd made it complicated. By fussing and bringing flowers. By looking at her like she'd torn something open in him when she fell through the ice.
Instead, she just said, "Finish your work. I'll eat my medicinal berries."
He stared at her for another moment, then returned to his chair. But she noticed he positioned it differently now, had angled it so he could see her without looking up from his papers.
They sat in companionable silence while she finished her meal and he pretended to work. Every few minutes, his gaze would flick to her, checking. When she shivered once, from memory, not cold, he immediately rose.
"You're cold."
"I'm not—"
But he was already pulling blankets from a chest at the foot of the bed. Thick, soft things that smelled of pine and age.
"You don't need to do all of this."
"Clearly I do." He arranged them over her with careful precision. "You're incapable of basic self-care."
"Says the man who ravaged me in a cave a week ago."
He paused, hands stilling on the blanket. "That's the second time you've mentioned that."
"It seems relevant to your current mother hen behavior."
"I'm not..." He straightened, glaring at her. "This isn't mother hen behavior. This is ensuring my property doesn't expire from preventable causes."
"Ah yes. Very lordly. Very practical." She snuggled deeper into the blankets he'd just arranged. "No emotional investment whatsoever."
"Exactly."
"Which is why you've spent three days in my room."
"Supervision."
"And why you keep bringing me flowers?"
"Medicinal purposes."
"And why you look physically pained when I try to get out of bed?"
"Because you're an idiot who doesn't understand the concept of recovery!" The words burst out louder than intended. He took a breath, visibly collecting himself. "You almost died. In water. Again. Forgive me for wanting to ensure it doesn't happen a third time."
The raw honesty in his voice made her chest tight.
"I'm okay," she said softly. "I'm here. I'm safe."
"Are you?" He moved closer again, drawn like a magnet. "Because from where I'm standing, you're a fragile human who thinks throwing herself at magical constructs is acceptable behavior."
"Only when they're about to kill you."
"I can't be killed by parlor tricks."
"You can be hurt." The words slipped out before she could stop them. "You can be damaged. And I... I didn't want that."
They stared at each other, the admission hanging between them like a physical thing.
"This is what I mean by complicated," he said finally.
"I know."
