garrett graham ❄︎ wisdom teeth day.
pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader summary – wisdom teeth removal leaves one very medicated girlfriend, four entertained hockey players and garrett accidentally confronting how much he likes being called husband. warnings – wisdom teeth removal, mild blood/medical references, emotional disinhibition, crying notes from me – not my favourite buutttt wanted to post something!! based on this request! so cute, thank you babe! word count – 4.6k
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The first problem was the step. Not the surgery, apparently. Not the four impacted wisdom teeth, not the anaesthetic still moving through her bloodstream like glitter in a snow globe, not the fact that she’d spent the entire car ride trying to explain to Garrett, through swollen cheeks and a mouth full of gauze, that the nurse had betrayed her by not letting her keep the disposable hair cap because it had content potential.
The step up to the hockey house porch was, at that moment, the greatest structural failure in all of Massachusetts.
Garrett had one arm locked carefully around her waist, his other hand holding the pharmacy bag, her phone, the aftercare packet, and the tiny plastic bag of spare gauze the oral surgeon had handed him with the grave expression of a man transferring classified information.
She was tucked into one of his Briar hoodies, hood crooked over her head and strings dangling unevenly against her chest, her knees doing something unreliable every time he shifted her forward.
“Okay,” he murmured near her temple, warm breath brushing the side of her hood. “Big step, wifey. We’ve got this.”
She blinked at the porch like it had offended her. Her mouth was too numb to close properly, which made the little sniffle that escaped her sound wet and wounded and deeply betrayed. “My gauze fell out.”
“I know, baby.”
“It fell out,” she said again, except the words came out thick and rounded, her lips barely cooperating around them.
Her eyes filled instantly, glossy and enormous in her swollen face, and Garrett had to look at the doorframe for half a second because laughing at his girlfriend while she was freshly traumatised by dental cotton wasn’t the kind of man he was trying to be.
Mostly.
“I saw it,” he said, voice so gentle it almost covered the strain at the edges. “We’re gonna get you more.”
She made a sad, outraged sound and tipped forward into his chest, forehead bumping clumsily against his collarbone. “It escaped.”
“It did,” Garrett agreed, shifting the pharmacy bag higher on his wrist so he could press his palm more securely to her back. “Very brave escape attempt. But we have reinforcements.”
She lifted her face slowly, eyes narrowing as if this required serious thought. “You got soldiers?”
“Whole bag of them.”
Her lower lip trembled. It would have been devastating if half of it hadn’t been numb and sitting slightly crooked. “For me?”
“For you.”
That seemed to soothe her for approximately four seconds, which was long enough for Garrett to get her over the step, against the door, and into the front hallway before the second problem revealed itself: the hockey house.
The living room was occupied, Logan was standing in front of the open fridge with a carton of orange juice in one hand and no visible intention of choosing anything else. Tucker was on the couch folding laundry. Dean was sprawled diagonally across the armchair in sweatpants.
All three of them looked up when the door opened. All three of them froze.
Garrett paused in the doorway with his girlfriend tucked under his arm, her cheeks swollen, her hood slipping sideways, her eyes shining with fresh devastation and her chin tilted slightly because she hadn’t yet regained full control of her own jaw.
There was a long, fragile silence.
Logan lowered the orange juice. “Uh.”
She lifted one hand. The movement was slow and floating, like she was waving from underwater. “Hi, Johnny.”
Logan’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Dean sat up. “Is she drunk?”
Garrett kicked the door shut behind them with his heel. “Wisdom teeth day.”
“Oh shit,” Tucker said immediately, laundry forgotten in his lap. “That’s right.”
Dean’s face changed from alarm to delight so fast it was almost disrespectful. “Oh, this is incredible.”
Garrett pointed at him without letting go of her. “Do not.”
She turned her head toward Dean with the slow, wobbly focus of someone trying to locate sound through fog. Her eyes narrowed, then softened, then filled with tears again for reasons not immediately clear to anybody in the room. “Dean.”
Dean blinked. “Yeah, boss?”
She sniffed at him. She leaned slightly forward against Garrett’s hold, tipped her face in Dean’s direction, and sniffed once, small and damp and investigative, like she was trying to identify him by scent.
Garrett closed his eyes. “Okay. There we are.”
Tucker pressed his lips together so hard his cheeks moved. Logan turned toward the fridge like the mayonnaise needed his full attention.
Dean, to his credit, accepted being sniffed with the kind of dignity available only to men who had once argued that a silk robe counted as formalwear. “Do I pass?”
She considered him very seriously, eyes half-lidded and wet. “You smell like expensive laundry.”
Dean’s face lit up. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s not a compliment,” Garrett said, already guiding her toward the couch with tiny, careful steps. “Alright, my love, sit down. There we go. Easy.”
“I don’t have bones,” she whispered, horrified, as her knees bent too early.
Garrett caught her before she could fold like a camping chair. “You have bones.”
“No.”
“You do. I saw them on the x-ray.”
She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder so she could look at him in complete betrayal. “You looked at my bones?”
“I was allowed.”
“They’re private.”
Dean made a strangled sound behind his hand.
Garrett shot him a warning look over her head, but his mouth was doing a dangerous thing at one corner. “Sorry, baby. Very rude of me. I won’t look at your bones again.”
She nodded, satisfied and mournful at once, then allowed herself to be lowered onto the couch beside Tucker’s pile of laundry.
Garrett crouched in front of her immediately, one hand braced near her knee while he set the pharmacy bag on the coffee table and started sorting through it with the concentrated seriousness he usually reserved for game tape.
Gauze, ibuprofen, the prescription bottle, ice packs, the printed sheet covered in post-op instructions, pudding cups he’d bought on the way home because she’d mumbled something about wanting soft brown food and he’d interpreted that as chocolate.
She watched his hands move, eyes huge above her puffy cheeks, and then her face crumpled again. The tears came suddenly, with no warning and no sound at first, just her eyes shining over and her shoulders hitching once beneath his hoodie.
Garrett looked up instantly. “Hey. What happened?”
“My mouth is empty.”
“I know.” He took a fresh square of gauze from the bag, unwrapping it carefully. “We’re fixing it right now.”
“It feels illegal,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, I bet.”
“I lost the other one.”
“You didn’t lose it. It’s in a napkin in my cup holder.”
She stared at him. “You kept it?”
“No,” he said, because there were limits. “I threw it out when you weren’t looking.”
Her expression folded into betrayal so complete Tucker looked genuinely concerned. “You killed him.”
Garrett paused with the gauze in his hand. “The gauze?”
“He was with me in my mouth.”
Dean coughed violently. Logan shut the fridge with his hip, still turned away, shoulders shaking.
Garrett inhaled once through his nose and lifted the new gauze toward her mouth with the patience of a saint and the facial control of a man actively earning heaven. “Open a little for me, wifey.”
She obeyed, sort of, lips parting around a swollen, miserable pout. Garrett placed the gauze carefully where the surgeon had shown him, his fingers gentle at her jaw, then leaned back to check that she wasn’t going to immediately eject it through sheer emotional disagreement.
“There,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over the safe curve of her cheek. “Better?”
She blinked at him. The tears stopped moving for a second. Then she nodded with grave, heartbreaking sincerity.
Garrett smiled despite himself. “Good girl.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Tucker looked down at the laundry like he had been raised to mind his business and intended to die that way. Logan made the mistake of glancing back and immediately had to put one fist against his mouth.
She noticed none of it. She was busy reaching with both hands for Garrett’s face, though her depth perception had filed for temporary leave. One hand caught his ear. The other landed on his chin. Garrett let her hold him there, crouched between her knees, eyes warm with helpless amusement.
“You’re pretty,” she said around the gauze.
His mouth curved. “Yeah?”
“So pretty,” she whispered, devastated by the information. “Like if hockey was a person and God liked him best.”
Dean whispered, “Holy shit.”
Garrett’s ears went pink. “Okay.”
“No, listen.”
“I’m listening.”
She squeezed his face with about the strength of a sleepy kitten. “You have eyelashes.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Not sure.”
“For being handsome?”
“Probably.”
She nodded, satisfied by his honesty, then turned her head very slowly toward Dean without releasing Garrett entirely.
Her hand slipped from Garrett’s ear into the side of his hair, keeping him within reach like he might be stolen if she stopped supervising him. “Dean.”
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking like Christmas had come early and been heavily medicated. “Yeah?”
She crooked one finger at him.
Garrett’s brows lifted. “Baby, what are we doing?”
“Secret.”
“No secrets with Dean.”
“Rude,” Dean said.
She tried to lean toward Dean and nearly tipped sideways. Garrett caught her by the waist with one hand, settling her back against the couch cushion before she could slide into Tucker’s folded towels. She looked annoyed by this interference but accepted it because Garrett’s hand stayed warm at her side.
Dean scooted his chair closer with a grin that started wicked and then softened a little when he saw how serious her face had gone. “What’s the secret, boss?”
She lifted her hand and cupped it around her mouth in a whisper that was not even remotely quiet. “That’s my husband.”
Dean looked at Garrett, who had gone very still, gauze wrapper pinched between his fingers. Then Dean looked back at her and snorted. “Sure.”
Her eyes widened, suddenly stern. “No. One day.” She nodded with the full weight of prophecy, then pointed at Garrett like he was evidence in court. “Gonna marry him. Look. He’s so hot.”
Dean pressed his lips together. His eyes flicked to Garrett again, whose expression had turned into something complicated and dangerously fond, like he’d been hit somewhere under the ribs and was pretending he hadn’t felt it.
“He is hot,” Dean agreed solemnly.
She nodded, pleased to have found a man of reason in a difficult time. “I know.”
Garrett cleared his throat and looked down at the gauze in his hands like it had started reciting scripture. “Alright.”
“No, don’t alright me,” she said, or tried to, the gauze softening half the consonants into something messy and indignant. “You are my husband.”
“I’m your boyfriend.”
Her face twisted in pity. “That’s sad for you.”
Logan lost the fight completely. He bent forward at the waist, laughing into his hands, orange juice still clutched in one fist. Tucker made a low sound that might have been a warning or might have been the beginning of his own collapse.
Garrett gave neither of them the dignity of attention. He smoothed the edge of her hood back from her cheek with two fingers and said, “I’ll survive.”
She stared at him for a long, suspended second, her expression softening through the haze until the silliness loosened into something quieter. Her hand slid from his hair to the front of his hoodie, fingers curling clumsily in the fabric. “Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not sad, baby.”
“You looked sad.”
“I’m good.”
“Promise?”
Garrett’s smile changed shape, all the cocky edges giving way to something the boys were usually smart enough not to tease him for. “Promise.”
She studied him as best she could with swollen cheeks and anaesthetic-heavy eyes, then seemed to decide he was telling the truth. Her attention drifted immediately to the coffee table. “Is that pudding?”
“Yes.”
“Did you buy me pudding?”
“Yes.”
“Because you love me?”
“Because I love you and because the nurse said soft foods.”
Her lower lip trembled again, but this time from awe. “You listen to women.”
Dean nodded. “That’s actually huge for him.”
Garrett didn’t look away from the aftercare sheet. “I’ll kick you.”
“With what?” Dean asked. “Your respectful listening skills?”
She turned toward Dean, fascinated. “He listens so good.”
“He does?”
She nodded, then whispered with another confidential lean that Garrett had to physically counterbalance. “Except when I tell him not to be hot at work.”
Garrett’s eyebrows rose. “When have you told me that?”
“All the time.”
“No, you tell me not to be annoying at work.”
“Same thing,” she sighed.
Logan drifted closer now that he had accepted this was the best thing that had happened in the house all semester. “Do you know where you are right now?”
She looked at him with open suspicion. “Why?”
“Just checking.”
“This is a quiz?”
“Kind of.”
She straightened slightly, or attempted to. The motion made her sway. Garrett’s hand landed instantly on her thigh, grounding her without making a production of it.
She patted his hand like he was the nervous one. “I know things.”
“Okay,” Logan said, grinning. “Where are you?”
She looked around the living room: the patched couch, the coffee table with a permanent ring from someone’s protein shake, the sneakers near the stairs, Dean watching her like a premium subscription had just activated, Tucker’s laundry stacked in neat little piles, Garrett crouched in front of her with a pharmacy bag.
“The hockey zoo,” she said finally.
Dean slapped his knee. “Correct.”
Tucker smiled despite himself. “Honestly, yeah.”
Garrett opened the pill bottle and checked the label again, because he had already checked it twice at the pharmacy and once in the car, but the instructions had involved timing and food and no straws and enough possible complications that his brain had filed all of it under things I will personally control until she is normal again. “You need something in your stomach before pain meds.”
She made a face. “I don’t have a stomach.”
“You do.”
“You keep saying that about my body.”
“Because you keep denying anatomy.”
Dean leaned toward Tucker. “This is the most educational she’s ever been.”
She heard him. Somehow, through gauze and anaesthetic and whatever chemical fog had convinced her that her bones deserved privacy, she heard that. Her head turned slowly, and Dean sat back like an animal had looked directly into a flashlight.
“I’m very smart,” she told him.
“You are,” Tucker said immediately, loyal and warm, because Tucker had the instincts of a man who knew not to argue with a wounded woman in Garrett Graham’s hoodie.
She pointed at him, pleased. “Tucker can stay.”
Tucker’s face softened. “Thanks, boss.”
Her finger moved to Logan. “Johnny can stay because he’s… sparkly.”
Logan’s grin widened. “I’m sparkly?”
“Yup.”
“I’ll take it.”
Her gaze reached Dean and lingered. Dean lifted his brows, waiting. She narrowed her eyes, assessing him with the full suspicion of a woman who had been sniffing people six minutes earlier. “Dean is on thin ice.”
Dean’s mouth fell open. “For what?”
“You know.”
“I actually don’t.”
“You have rich boy crimes.”
Garrett coughed into his fist.
Dean pointed at him. “You’re laughing. I saw that.”
Garrett unfolded from his crouch and sat beside her on the couch, close enough that their thighs pressed together.
She immediately leaned into him like gravity had made a personal decision, her head finding his shoulder, her fingers migrating to the hem of his hoodie. He put the pudding cup on the coffee table, peeled the foil lid back, and picked up the spoon.
She lifted her head enough to stare at it. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know.”
“Then why tiny spoon?”
“Because your mouth is full of gauze.”
She considered this, then accepted the spoon when he held it up. Half the pudding made it into her mouth. The rest touched the corner of her lip, and before she could become aware of it and cry, Garrett wiped it away with his thumb.
His movements were so automatic, so quiet, that the boys seemed to collectively decide they hadn’t seen it. Or maybe they had seen it and understood, for once, that teasing him here would get them murdered in their sleep.
She swallowed carefully, eyes closing as if pudding had restored some essential part of her soul. “Chocolate.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re good at husband.”
Garrett’s thumb paused against the pudding cup. Dean made a tiny sound of delight and immediately covered it with a cough.
Garrett looked down at her, the spoon still held between them. “Am I?”
She nodded, cheek rubbing against his shoulder. “You got soldiers for my mouth.”
“I did.”
She blinked down at the pudding cup, still deeply moved by it. “And pudding.”
“Also did that,” he said.
Her swollen mouth shifted around the gauze as she looked up at him again. “And you didn’t let the nurse steal me.”
“I wasn’t super worried about that one.”
“She liked me,” she mumbled.
“She gave you gauze and told you not to use a straw,” he reminded her.
“Because she liked me,” she said, with the stubborn certainty of someone who had absolutely decided the nurse was emotionally invested.
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
She accepted another spoonful, then sighed through her nose and settled heavier into his side. Her whole body had begun to soften in increments, the initial weepy panic draining into that boneless post-surgery exhaustion that made her limbs seem too heavy for the couch.
Garrett shifted the ice pack from the pharmacy bag and wrapped it in a towel, then laid it gently against the side of her jaw. She flinched at the cold, eyes snapping open in betrayal. “Garrett.”
“I know. Sorry. Just for a little bit.”
“You froze my face!”
“Your face was already pretty frozen, wifey.”
She stared at him. Then, very slowly, her mouth curved around the gauze in something that might have been a smile if her cheeks weren’t swollen. “You called me wifey.”
“I always call you wifey.”
“Because I’m your wife.”
“Because you steal my hoodies and yell at my teammates.”
“That’s wife work.”
Dean lifted a finger. “Can confirm.”
Garrett pointed the spoon at him. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m supporting the institution of marriage.”
She reached for the ice pack and missed it completely, her hand landing on Garrett’s forearm instead. Her fingers stayed there, lightly gripping. “Where’s my camera?”
Every man in the room reacted at once.
“No,” Garrett said.
Logan said, “Absolutely not.”
Tucker said, “Maybe later.”
Dean said, “For historical record–”
Garrett turned his head. “Dean.”
Dean lifted both hands. “I’m withdrawing.”
She looked offended. “I need content.”
“You need pudding and a nap,” Garrett said.
“My followers need transparency.”
“Your followers don’t need anesthesia footage.”
“That’s censorship,” she whined, half-mumbling.
“That’s love.”
She frowned, trying to work through that, then leaned close to him with the ice pack slipping slightly against her cheek. Garrett caught it before it fell and held it in place, his other arm wrapping around her shoulders.
She blinked up at him, lashes heavy, eyes still glossy but no longer actively spilling over. “You love me?”
His face gentled so fast it did something strange to the room. Even Dean went quiet, grin fading into something softer and less performative. Logan looked down at the orange juice in his hand like he had suddenly realised he’d been holding it too long. Tucker resumed folding one of Garrett’s shirts with exaggerated care.
“Yeah, baby,” Garrett said, voice low enough that it almost didn’t belong to the room. “I love you.”
She breathed out, the sound shaky and sweet through her nose. “That’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Because I love you too much.”
His mouth tipped up. “Too much?”
“Like medically.”
“Medically,” he repeated.
She nodded, solemn again. “It’s probably in my chart.”
“I’ll ask the surgeon.”
“Nope. HIPAA.”
Dean whispered, “She’s still got it.”
Garrett laughed then, quiet and helpless, pressing his mouth briefly to the top of her head. “Yeah, she does.”
She informed Logan that orange juice was fruit soup. She looked at Dean for nearly ten seconds and asked whether he had ever considered behaving, which made him press one hand to his chest and tell her he didn’t appreciate being attacked in his own home.
She asked Garrett if his skates missed him when he wasn’t wearing them, and when he said probably, she nodded like that had been weighing on her.
Through all of it, Garrett sat beside her with the ice pack held to her jaw, spooning careful bites of pudding into her mouth whenever she remembered she was hungry, replacing the gauze when she made a tiny distressed sound and whispered that the soldiers had gone soggy.
He kept the aftercare sheet on his knee, one finger marking the medication schedule, his body curved around hers in a way that looked casual only if no one knew him well enough to read the vigilance in it.
He didn’t crowd her. He didn’t baby her in a way that would embarrass her once she remembered herself. He just stayed close enough that every time she drifted, her hand found some part of him: his sleeve, his wrist, the drawstring of his hoodie, the hard line of his thigh against hers.
Eventually, her head tipped back against the cushion and her eyes moved across his face with slow, dreamy concentration. “Garrett.”
“Yeah?”
“You have to marry me.”
Dean’s eyes went bright again, but he wisely said nothing.
Garrett brushed a piece of hair away from her temple, careful not to jostle the ice pack. “Have to?”
She nodded. “Dean said you’re hot.”
Dean pointed at himself, delighted and silent.
“That’s a strong argument,” Garrett said.
“And I love you.”
His thumb stilled against her hairline. Outside, a car passed slow down the street, bass thudding faintly through the walls. But something in Garrett settled and unsettled at the same time, his expression caught for a breath between laughter and the kind of feeling he normally kept tucked somewhere safer.
“You do?” he asked, because he couldn’t not.
She blinked at him, almost offended by the question. “Duh.”
“Duh,” he echoed, smiling now.
“I’m gonna make you graphics.”
“For our wedding?”
“Mhm.” Her eyes fell half-shut. “Carousel post.”
“Of course.”
“Good lighting.”
“Obviously.”
“No Dean speech.”
Dean whispered, “What the fuck?”
Garrett’s grin widened. “No Dean speech.”
She relaxed, apparently comforted by this essential boundary. “Tucker can have soup.”
Tucker looked up. “At the wedding?”
“No, now.”
“Oh.” Tucker stood immediately, because Tucker was Tucker. “I can make soup.”
Garrett glanced at the aftercare sheet. “Not too hot.”
“Warm soup,” Tucker said, already heading for the kitchen. “Soft. No straws. I’m on it.”
Logan watched him go, then looked back at the couch. “Should I do something?”
Garrett considered him. “Don’t open the fridge again.”
Logan nodded. “Huge contribution from me.”
Dean leaned back in the armchair, still smiling. “This is honestly the most I’ve ever respected love.”
Garrett looked at him. “That’s concerning.”
“It’s the way she’s drugged out of her mind and still using good judgment.”
“She put you on thin ice.”
“Exactly,” Dean said. “Sharp instincts.”
She made a small noise from Garrett’s shoulder, not fully words, and Garrett’s attention snapped down. “You okay?”
“Mhm.” Her hand curled weakly in his hoodie again. “Don’t let my face fall off.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She hummed, sleepy and swollen and still faintly tragic. Garrett let his cheek rest against the top of her head for a second, just enough to breathe her in beneath the clinical smell of gauze and the sweet chocolate on her mouth and the cold pack pressed to her jaw.
She was ridiculous. She was going to wake up later horrified by at least sixty percent of what had come out of her mouth. She was going to demand to know whether anyone filmed her, and he was going to say no, because he loved her enough to protect her personal brand from herself.
She was also, apparently, going to marry him one day. The thought moved through him slowly, without the sharp panic it might have carried with anyone else. It just sat there, warm and heavy and strangely easy, while she breathed against his shoulder and the boys pretended not to watch him soften over it.
After a while, Dean said, quieter than usual, “Hey, Graham.”
Garrett looked up.
Dean’s mouth twitched, but for once the teasing stayed gentle. “Your wife’s falling asleep.”
Garrett glanced down. Her eyes were closed now, lashes resting against cheeks puffed around the gauze, her hand still clutching his hoodie like even unconsciousness had standards. The ice pack had slipped a little, and he adjusted it carefully.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ve got her.”
She stirred at his voice, barely opening one eye. “Husband?”
Dean’s face collapsed silently into laughter.
Garrett’s hand covered hers where it held his hoodie. “Yeah, wifey?”
“Can I have twenty dollars?”
Logan made a sound like he’d been punched. Garrett stared at her for half a second, then bowed his head, shoulders shaking as the laugh finally got loose.
She blinked up at him, confused by the movement, and he kissed her forehead before she could decide to be upset about it.
“Yeah, baby,” he said, still smiling against her skin. “After your nap.”
She sighed, pleased and victorious, and tucked her face more securely into his shoulder.
Dean wiped under one eye. “For chocolate?”
Garrett looked at him over her head. “Do not make her answer that.”
But she did anyway, voice small and muffled and already half-dreaming against Garrett’s hoodie. “For my husband.”
Garrett stopped laughing.
Dean saw it, his grin softened into something unbearably smug, and Garrett knew with immediate certainty that he would be hearing about this until the end of time.
He couldn’t even bring himself to threaten him properly, not with her warm and heavy against his side, not with pudding on the coffee table and gauze wrappers in his lap and her drugged-up certainty still sitting in his chest like something that had found a place to stay.
So he just pulled her a little closer, careful of her jaw, and rested his mouth against her hair. “Go to sleep, baby,” he murmured.
She made one last tiny sound, maybe agreement, maybe protest, maybe another medical opinion about her missing bones. Then she melted fully into him, the whole wild, brilliant machinery of her finally quieting beneath the weight of anaesthesia and chocolate pudding and Garrett’s hand moving slowly over her arm.
Across the room, Logan whispered, “So we’re all invited to the wedding, right?”
Garrett didn’t lift his head. “Only Tucker.”
“What?” Dean demanded, deeply wounded. “I supported your hotness.”
“You were on thin ice.”
Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway with a saucepan in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, smiling at the couch like he was trying not to. “Soup’ll be ready in ten.”
Garrett looked down at the sleeping girl tucked into his side, her swollen cheek pressed to the ice pack, her fingers still curled in his hoodie, and felt the day settle around him in all its absurd, inconvenient sweetness.
“Make it fifteen,” he said quietly. “Let her sleep.”
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