No if's, no but's, no and's, this room is hers now. Matt doesn't bother arguing, maybe too tired from the trek here, maybe too overstimulated from all the new sounds. New smells. Her breathing is a big one — the rustling of her skin against the bare sheets of the bed, another. It feels like knives on his, but Matt lays there, complacent, gaze angled blankly up at the ceiling.

"Haven't got any complaints so far." Then again, Foggy never had any complaints about Matt's sleeping habits. Maybe the company he tended to bring, yes. Eventually, more tired than he means, "I promise I won't make a sound."