"Hm." You're accustomed to her usual grunts and nods, and any lapse of silence. Her gaze is hard as she stares at the singular bed you're expected to share. Granted, it's your safe house. Bryce isn't going to ruminate over this situation. "It's yours."

She elects to sit in one of the few chairs without any fanfare, and you know what's coming: microsleep.

Bryce doesn't even take off her cowl, cape, gloves— anything.