The door clicked shut behind Salvatore, and for a moment neither of them said anything at all. Roderick stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
"I can't believe he's making us stay in bed like children," Roderick muttered, though the complaint came out weaker than usual. He glanced sideways and caught sight of Milo, curled small beneath the blankets, his face pale and drawn, dark circles pressed deep beneath his eyes.
Milo felt the weight of that gaze and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
"I'm sorry, Sir," he murmured.
"For what?" Roderick said, though not unkindly.
"For all of this. If I wasn't too sick, you wouldn't have to stay here either. We could go with him."
Roderick's expression softened, the edge draining out of his voice entirely. "You can't do anything about it. Stop saying sorry."
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm not worried about being stuck in bed. I'm worried about him."
