It makes a noise—not like he was thinking, not a crunch. A meaty sound. His head jerks back and his weight shifts but he doesn't stagger. He's breathing hard, blood or snot pouring from his nose. Hands still at his sides. His eyes close, briefly—the blood keeps on running. It's a different kind of pain than he's used to—treks through the park, injured limbs. He feels lit up like a pinball machine.

He takes a breath, trains his gaze on her—bright but not malicious. Breaks away to grab one of the bed's half dozen pillows, careful not to drip on the bedspread. He strips the pillow as efficiently as he might slit a throat, blots at his nose with the case.

“Better?” he asks after another sharp breath, his voice muffled.

An honest question.