The safe thing.
The professional thing.
“I am,” I say.
Her shoulders ease a fraction.
She closes the door quietly behind her, taking away the hallway light and plunging the room back into near darkness. For a few seconds, she’s just a shape against the dim glow of the moon through the curtains.
Then my eyes adjust.
She’s looking at me.
Her bare feet are silent on the rug as she crosses the room, slowly, like she’s giving me plenty of time to tell her to go away.
I don’t say it.
Because the thought of sending her back to an empty room to stare at a ceiling for the rest of the night after what happened feels… wrong.
That is the kind of soft, unprofessional thinking that I don’t allow myself.
I am going to have to address it later.
Right now, I let her come.
She stops a few feet from the bed, close enough that I can see the uncertainty in her eyes.
“You shouldn’t be walking around,” I say, keeping my voice low. I’m talking about her, but she takes it as an invitation.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits.
I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make my side feel like it’s being torn apart. The movement makes my breath catch.
She notices, of course.
“You need to sit up,” she says. “Lying flat is probably pulling on the stitches.”
She moves toward the nightstand, her movements sure now that she has a task. She picks up the spare pillows stacked neatly in the corner and shakes one out.
“You’ll hurt yourself more if you keep trying to get up on your own,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, like we're back in the conference room and she's the one in charge.
I want to argue. My pride, my training, everything in me wants to handle this myself.
But the idea of the effort it would take to prop myself up, the pain that would inevitably follow, the sheer logistical problem of doing it one-handed without ripping something open—it’s exhausting just to think about.
So I let her.
She puts a knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning across me to place the pillow against the headboard. Her hair brushes against my shoulder, smelling faintly of shampoo.
She smells clean.
I smell of blood and antiseptic.
“Okay,” she says softly. “On three. I’ll help you.”
She places one hand carefully on my upper arm, her touch light but firm.
“One…”
