It starts as a very minute shift of his head, like a scratch to his ear. And then he picks up on the unwieldy changes to her body— the pounding of her heart, the thrum of blood pumping through her, steady breathing. So very awake and so very loud. It hurts him to even hear it. Matt wishes he could have his own apartment again. Matt wishes he was back in Hell's Kitchen.

A deep longing hits him as he forces himself to get up (he longs for his body to ache with bruises from a good fight, not from sleeping on the forest floor, he longs for the sounds of his city streets, he longs for his friends, his old life). Starts by rolling onto his side and angles his head somewhere in her direction, where her rustling is the brightest.

"What's going on?" He asks, purposely low and soft. He asks despite knowing she has a headache, because he's blind and technically can't see the way she suffers from her own body. "The bed's not that comfortable but it can't be that bad."