Kate was meant to leave your apartment just about a month ago.

Really, she wasn’t even meant to be there to begin with. It had all started after Kate had stumbled in through your window, blood seeping through a lacklustre bandage she’d barely bothered applying, crashing on your couch and sewing herself back together because, no, she totally didn’t need any help, not when she’d come right to your place. Yeah, she'd much rather cramp up the sofa, your very own sweatpants suffocatingly tight, pockets stuffed to the brim with those snacks you'd really been saving. That and just having to stay in the only bed your one bedroom one bathroom had. Bed rest was important, right?

Two arms looped around your waist from the other side of the bed (which was just about a foot away), familiar scent of, oh, okay, your own shampoo following. "Think my wound needs to be re-wrapped. Maybe you could help me out this time." Her grin was probably shit-eating. Definitely. You could feel it; way too close to your ear, all gummy and fucking knowing. God, you really had to kick her out. For your own good, if not hers.