Why Gabriel still allowed her to carry things was beyond her. Every time her head swam or a cough built in her lungs, she dropped whatever she was holding -- a tablet, a clipboard.
Today, it was a glass of water. It crashed against the marble floor, the broken shards skittering across the ground.
When her coughing fit had ceased, she crouched down to collect the pieces, the whirring of her braces the only sound to accompany her.
Hearing footsteps, she piled the glass into her hands, cutting herself in her haste. She watched as a red blood droplet formed at her fingertip and trailed down her hand, halting at her sleeve.
The door of the office opened and she turned her head, catching sight of Gabriel's shoes. He went to her wordlessly, kneeling and taking her injured hand in his own. The cataclysm's mark lurked just beneath the glove, she knew.
Nathalie found it difficult to stay mad at him as he used his glove as a temporary bandage, the red of her blood a stark contrast against the white fabric.
"You should've let me," he said quietly.