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Veyr was moving the couch.

Again.

I stopped in the doorway. “What on God’s gray Zunator are you doing?”

He looked over one shoulder. “Improving the sight line.”

“No.”

He straightened. “No?”

“No.”

“The current angle leaves the western entrance partially obstructed.” He gestured toward the door with a flat, sweeping motion of his hand, then back toward the couch, as if tracing tactical lines only he could see.

I gestured at the room, at the couch now angled aggressively toward the door. “People are supposed to put their feet up in here. Not scan for hostiles.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“You moved the chair yesterday.”

“It created a blind spot.”

“A blind spot for what? Stubbing your toe?”

“For observing the primary entrance while seated.”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

“Exactly.” I planted my feet and folded my arms tight across my chest.

Veyr looked at the couch. Then at me.

His healing had improved significantly, but not completely. His ŭre still responded more slowly around major strain, and the old damage remained.

He had also been explicitly told not to move heavy furniture alone. Naturally, this meant nothing to him.

“Does your side hurt?”

“No.”

I stared.

He corrected himself. “Minimally.”

“Did the medic say you could move furniture?”

“He said moderate activity was acceptable.”

“Did he specifically say couch?”

“No.”

“Then stop.”

“It is not heavy.”