Clio could've demanded all she liked and Will would have jumped at the chance to make her a smidge more comfortable. He'd never been good at sitting idle, least of all when someone he loved was in pain. This was a natural kind of pain, but it was still pain, and it was only half a year ago he'd been sitting vigil at her bedside while nurses changed the dressing on her wounds and a mask pumped fresh oxygen into her abused lungs. He was trying not to be jumpy for Clio's sake, but every twinge of discomfort brought an instinctive spike of do something, fix it, make it better.
At least she was singing. She couldn't be feeling too rotten if she was singing. And Will, he could listen to her voice all day.
He was busy fiddling with the kitchen door – it had a dodgy hinge, wasn't closing right – but he left it aside at once when Clio called out for water, jumping on the task. Moments later he was in the lounge, handing her a glass. "How's the feet, love?"