She is on the couch because she cannot even stand to be in the same room with him right now. She has cried herself to sleep with a heavy throw over her shoulder. The fabric smells like him; his cologne, his shampoo, the soap on his skin and she finds herself hating it in her hazy dream.

He lifts her easily and carries her into the bedroom. He opens the sheets, then lays her there so gently she doesn't evens stir. He pulls the blankets over her frame and after kissing her forehead, drags himself out to the living room and takes her place on the couch.

In the morning, they'll avoid eye contact through breakfast and move silently but efficiently through their morning routines before he'll stop her while she's getting dressed and apologize for being an ass. In return, she'll apologize for bombing him ('it's blowing up' Zi) and by the time they're walking out the door, last night's screaming match will be on its way to being a distant memory.

But for tonight, he'll take the couch even if it really is too small for him. He'd rather be alone on the couch than feel alone lying right there beside her in the bed.