He hovered more, when she stopped talking. He stayed close, eyes narrowed in concern while she lay in a sweating heap on the couch, teeth chattering.
Huge, dark eyes stared off at nothing; when they began to focus, he would dart over, roll her to the side, let her vomit. He’d clean it up, bring the bowl back, set it near her, waiting for the next time she’d surface.
“Could just let me die,” she rasped, staring at him.
This was different than the anger. Instead of silence or snark, he laid a hand on her shoulder, warm and steady.No tags for this post.