“That’s not how permission works.”
“No.”
Her glare should not feel like a relief, but it does. She leans her head back against the wall, eyes closing for one breath. Two. Then they open again. I dislike how hard she fights rest.
“Sleep,” I say.
“No.”
“Rest.”
“That’s just sleep with better manners.”
“Then sit still.”
“I’m already sitting still.”
“Your mind is not.”
Her eyes sharpen. “You can hear that too?”
“No. I can see what it does to your hands.”
She looks at the fingers that were worrying the edge of her pack strap. A small, constant motion, like counting without tokens. Spending fear through skin. Then she stops. I wish I had not said it. No. I wish the world had never taught her to hide so much that even movement feels like exposure.
“You don’t have to watch me every second,” she says.
“Yes.”
Her gaze lifts. “That was not an invitation to agree.”
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Her lips press together. “Why?”
Because the shelter is small and she is too close. Because her pulse still has not settled.
Because the world outside has teeth under glass and the world beneath has learned a rhythm I do not understand.
Because when she stood too fast, my body knew terror before my mind had words. Because no one watched closely enough before me. I say none of that.
“Because if you fall asleep too deeply, I need to know whether it is rest or heat sickness.”
Her face closes down. A poor answer, even if it is true. Just not the whole answer.
“Efficient,” she says.
The word has a wall around it. I have stepped wrong again. Care is a blade. I keep finding the edge by cutting her with it.
“Sera.”
“What?”
“I did not mean only that.”
