The first morning she stayed in bed past sunrise, he assumed she was exhausted. The war had taken everything from everyone. Rest was overdue.
The second morning, he watched her sit up and immediately press her hand to her mouth.
"Lyra."
"I'm fine," she said, which was what Lyra always said.
Then she made it to the washroom just in time.
He was at the door before she'd finished, his hand on her back, saying nothing because there was nothing useful to say. She knelt over the basin with the focused grimness of someone enduring something they hadn't scheduled and deeply resented.
When it passed she sat back, her dark hair damp at the temples, her golden eyes showing the particular expression she wore when her body was doing something her tactical mind couldn't immediately explain or correct.
"That's the second time this week," Satou said quietly.
"I'm aware."
"You didn't tell me about the first time."
