Marlowe
"He's moving you into his own quarters." Nova said it like she was reporting breaking news, which, given the way half the mess hall had gone quiet to listen, she basically was. "For *supervision.*"
"It's medical."
"It's medical the way I'm subtle." She grinned, unable to help herself despite the genuine concern underneath it. "Ribs don't need a personal President chaperone, Finch. Preacher's perfectly capable of checking on cracked ribs without moving anybody into his own bed."
I didn't have a good counter for that, mostly because she was right, and mostly because King had made the announcement himself that morning with a flatness that fooled nobody — least of all the collective, unspoken smirk that had rippled through the den the second the words left his mouth.
"It's tempora
