Nothing, she said — she seemed almost unsure about it, given her posture, but some of the tension leaked out of his shoulders all the same. She wasn't going to leave, and she wasn't going to say anything. It was more than he had dared to hope at the beginning of the night. Of course she would still hate him, and the close-held cut hidden beneath the vest could kill you just as surely as any other kind of wound, particularly if left to fester and rot — but if she wasn't going to blow up everything right now, then at least that bought him time to think about what to do with all the rest of it.

He might have to invent an argument, if anyone had heard the noise last night, but if by some miracle they hadn't then he'd rather not. Too many unnecessary lies, too many stories to keep straight; they would have to corroborate the details of the pretended fight, in case it was asked about later, and he didn't need to ask to know she didn't have the energy or willpower to do that. He pursed his lips briefly, considering how the rest of the day might play out below, what he would need to do in order to get them through today — the next, and the next, and the next would have to come later. "I can tell them you're sick," he suggested. "So you don't have to come down until..."

He left off with a lame shrug. Until she was feeling better, until she hated him less, until the end of time?

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