Marina's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"You're supposed to be in bed."
"I was in bed." I lean against the counter, trying to look casual. Trying to hide the fact that standing this long is making my vision blur at the edges. "For days. I got bored."
"So you decided to clean my kitchen?"
"It needed cleaning."
"It did not need cleaning."
"The faucet was dripping."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"The faucet has been dripping for three months."
"Not anymore."
Marina crosses her arms. The movement is defensive. Protective.
But she doesn't leave.
"You're going to tear your stitches," she says.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're pale. You're sweating. And you're doing dishes in my kitchen at eleven o'clock at night like some kind of—" She stops. Shakes her head. "I don't even know what."
"Helpful houseguest?"
"Deranged patient."
I almost smile.
Almost.
"I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Marina." I straighten up. Ignore the way my side screams at me. "I know how to wash a dish."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a long moment, she just looks at me. Her blue-green eyes searching my face for something. I don't know what.
"I heard you talking," I say. "In the bathroom."
Her expression shutters.
"I didn't listen," I add quickly. "I turned on the water. Gave you privacy."
"How noble of you."
"I'm a noble guy."
"You cornered me against a wall because you thought I had a boyfriend."
