"No," I say immediately.
Lucius blinks. "I can't sleep in your bed?"
"No."
"Not even on the edge?"
"No."
"On top of the blankets?" When I don't answer, he sighs dramatically, hand pressed to his bandaged side. "You wound me."
"You're literally bleeding," I snap.
He gestures vaguely at the pristine cushions. "The couch is low. If I lie down wrong, I'll rip the stitches you painstakingly gave me."
I drag a hand down my face. "You can sleep on the couch. I'll get blankets."
He gives me the most pathetic expression a grown man has ever attempted. "What if I die in the night?"
"I'll call the cleaners," I shrug.
He snorts in amusement despite his ribs protesting. "How cruel."
He watches me cross the apartment to the linen closet. Yet, when I open the doors and look at the blankets inside, my mind can't help but wander.
