When she'd cried, he'd hugged her. She'd hated it, wounded by his gentleness when all she wanted to do was fly off the handle, hit, scream. But it'd been Eric's first reaction to take her in his arms. Was that what he'd want, too? Had she fucked up, lost that window of opportunity? Would she be the girl who didn't know how to handle a simple case of comforting?

Amber slid, slowly, without a sound, off the bed on the side opposite Eric. He was still. Too still. Fuck, it hurt to see that inflexible back, immobile like stone. She heard the breath he took; it was the only sign he was living. "Hey," she said. Felt as useful as a rocket engineer faced with a broken finger, but she couldn't not react; it was ingrained deep inside to at least try. "Are you okay?"

His mom was sick. Had been for a long time, probably. An image flashed through her mind, of his mom stuck in a hospital bed, an IV permanently through her wrist, weakening vitals announced in neon red lights. And here she'd been going on about on about her own mom. He should've told her. "Forget it," she repeated. Eric coming over was out of the question; wouldn't happen as long as she was on this side of the grave. "If you're going to see anyone, it should be her."

And now he wanted to plan a quick getaway. Amber's sympathy turned to exasperation, her hands framing her hips. Yeah, the gym was going to solve so fucking much. "You think that's going to make everything better?" she threw at him. How could it, when he'd almost shown his heart was breaking? Just because he’d pulled away at the last minute didn’t mean he wasn’t, at this very moment, being eaten by worry. Dribbling a ball and sweating wouldn't change anything. That was just fucking denial. Her own indignation fueling her past awkwardness, Amber strode to Eric, taking him by the shoulders as she hadn't dared before. Stared him in the eyes, not caring if he avoided hers like House did human feelings. "What are you not telling me?"