her first instinct is to argue — she always does. something about being told to rest makes her bristle, like it's an admission of weakness she can't quite swallow. but the look on his face stops her cold. there's no room for negotiation in his tone, no sharpness either — just quiet certainty, the kind that makes her chest ache a little.
" arata, i can — " she starts, but the words falter when he glances up at her, & that's it. she exhales softly, shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of her. " okay, " she concedes at last, her voice gentler now, tinged with reluctant fondness. the corner of her mouth lifts, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes — not entirely. there's too much exhaustion in them, too much of the day's weight clinging to her bones. still, when he moves closer, she lets him. " the first aid kit is in the bathroom, second drawer. "