Den thought resting was exactly what he was doing what with the bed, and him being in it at whatever o'clock it was, instead of up like he would have been if it weren't for the pain. He wondered what time it actually was. It was weird to be in a bed. He wasn't really used to it. It seemed almost too comfortable.
“It's not that bad,” he said, partly as protest, and partly as a lame attempt to reassure her. “Didn't even kill me maybe.” He regretted the last part the moment it left his mouth.
He nodded, and then watched Rory's reaction. It astounded Den, how much she had changed. She looked so sad. Den didn't remember a time when she'd ever looked anything but fiery or stubbornly apathetic when it came to him. Or awkward. Den had always felt awkward when they'd both moved on. Like they lived in different universes, and his presence in her world, or her presence in his created a weird slightly uncomfortable paradox.
Now she looked sad. Now she was sitting at the edge of the bed, scolding him about resting. He supposed a zombie pandemic could do that. His baby sister grew up. It broke his heart, but made him feel strangely proud too. Dennis wished he hadn't missed it. He felt bad that she hadn't missed him, but he was glad he hadn't missed her. Even if the worst happened, especially if the worst happened, there was that.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, “No.” His tone was firm, but soft, almost a whisper. Den slowly reached over and put his hand on top of hers. He hadn't touched her hand since she was little, and a part of him was scared she'd recoil, but Dennis didn't care. What did he have to care about anymore? “No.” Dennis said, “He had reasons.”