He'd rolled her over -- so strangely limp and heavy -- to lie on her back, cleaned up the blood, and covered her with every blanket in the house. He'd tucked the covers around her, combed out her tangled hair and shut her eyes with hands that refused to stop shaking, but she still didn't look like she was asleep. He knew what sleep was supposed to look like; he'd spent hours watching her sleep, on nights when she'd had more than enough to drink or Jien had persuaded her to take some medicine. Asleep, her face had been as beautiful and kind as in his dreams, not twisted into the waking masks of rage and sorrow.
She doesn't look asleep now. She doesn't even look entirely like herself. Her face has gone strangely slack, like a wax model that's been left out in the sun long enough to soften. Too slack, too still, too pale; his eyes keep sliding away to focus on a stray curl of hair, the frayed edge of a sheet, anything but the wrongness of her not-sleeping face.
It's easier to just not look at all, now that he's done all he can for her. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and unshed tears. It's easier to just let them fall closed as he slumps to the floor, curling his small body alongside her too-still form. Blindly, he presses his face against hers; her cheek is still warm and soft, and the sweet jasmine of her shampoo is almost enough to make him forget the familiar, heavy scent of blood.
She's not asleep, but with his eyes closed he can pretend for a little while. He knows he can't stay, but he can't bear to leave her just yet; it's the first and last time he will ever be able to hold her without being shoved away.