Still, she keeps her gaze away, resisting the urge to look back at the mirror. It makes talking easier, though Fever knows she's seen like she was earlier. Like she's under one of those lights, that wound on her abdomen reopened, and everyone peering in.

"I do accept it. I just...I wish you hadn't seen it."

Or anyone. Anyone seeing her pain, her misery, her clinging onto life by shreds. Or any of this, her trying to squeeze her way out of this corner because she doesn't know what's prickling hot and cold in her chest, why this particular feeling has slithered out of hiding for her.