The small jolt of not expecting, followed by the tension that suddenly comes back into his arms around her and his chest under her, is impossible to miss. That momentary loud thud of his heart under her ear, even as he shifted a little. Lifted one arm to rub at his face, coming more awake in the pitch dark of the room. There's a weird momentary tension between her shoulder blades when he does. Like, even though she made that happen, she hadn't been entirely prepared for it to happen. For the sudden loss of warmth and sleep-heavy weight.

Maybe not the question either, if it's the most apparent and easiest assumption he can make. She's not sure he's wrong to ask it. She's not sure why she hadn't just gently extricated herself from his arms and shifted slow as she could not to wake him while doing so, to let him sleep, let him even begin to heal up. For all that, she made sure to poke her somewhere kind; she knows she's lying on patches of color bruising, too.

She turns her head, chin settling light against his chest, and somehow, she doesn't have any words. Does she want him to move? Is there even enough bed on that side for him to move? Are they in the middle or more on one side? She hadn't thought to figure out any of that and hadn't thought of anything but him, below her and around her.

There's a sigh out her nose, which is probably hard to distinguish in emotion.
But she hasn't moved, and she's staring at him through the darkness.

What was the point of waking him if she had no words?
A faint frown there, more frustrated at herself than him.