I make it to the couch before my legs give out. The cushions are soft.
She's beautiful when she's furious.
She's beautiful all the time.
I press my hand against my side. The pain grounds me. Keeps me present. Keeps me from doing something stupid like crossing the room and finishing what I started.
Her chin in my hand. Her lips inches from mine.
Christ.
Marina returns with a glass of water. She holds it out like she's offering poison.
"Drink."
I take it. Our fingers don't touch. She's careful about that.
"You can have your bedroom back." I gesture toward the hallway with the glass. "I'll stay on the couch."
She blinks. "What?"
"The couch." I take a sip. The water is cold. Good. "I can lay here. You don't need to sleep out here anymore."
"You can barely stand."
"I'm sitting now."
She stares at me like I'm an idiot not understanding basic things. "Dr. Marchetti said three days of bed rest. Three days. It's been—" She checks her phone. "—less than twenty-four hours."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the flex you think it is."
I almost smile.
She's standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed, hip cocked to one side. The afternoon light catches the brown in her hair. Makes it look almost red.
"The couch is too short for you," she says. "Your feet hang off the end."
"I noticed."
"And the cushions are lumpy."
"Also noticed."
"And you'll probably tear your stitches in your sleep and bleed all over my upholstery."
"Probably."
She throws her hands up. "Then why would you?—"
"Because you haven't slept."
That stops her.
"I can see it," I say.
"I was just?—"
