She blinks.
"What?"
"The couch." I gesture vaguely toward the door. Toward the living room I barely remember seeing before I passed out. "I'll sleep there. You need your bed."
"No."
The word comes out flat. Final.
"You're not moving."
"I can't take your bed."
"You're not taking it. You're using it. Because you have a hole in your side and the doctor said no movement for three days."
"I've slept through worse."
"I don't care."
She crosses her arms over her chest. A defensive posture. A wall going up.
"You're staying in the bed. End of discussion."
"Marina—"
"I said no."
Her voice cracks on the last word.
Just slightly. Just enough for me to hear.
She's at the end of her rope.
I can see it now. The exhaustion in her face. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hands are shaking even as she tries to hide them.
She's been holding it together for hours.
And now she's breaking.
Because of me.
Christ.
I want to reach for her. Pull her close. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I never meant for any of this to happen.
But I can't.
I don't have the right.
"Okay," I say instead.
My voice is quiet. Rough.
"Okay. I'll stay."
She nods.
Once. Sharp.
