Holy hell. That's what he's going to catch.

He lies there, quite comfortable, crushing all the flowers in the bed. She looks on, listening to every unconscious groan.

He's got a nice face, she thinks. It reminds her of someone's, but she can't think whose. She remembers the clothes, though. Like his.

She places a hand on his forehead. She can feel the sticky sweat of battle on him.

He starts to stir. His voice is battle-hard and rusty. Somehow, she pities him.

She decides to forgive him for dropping in. She wonders whether the flowers will be as kind.