Not his. Elias slid the key into its locked and told himself she was not his. He nodded to her words, nudged the door open with his toe and then gently closed with his heel, and reminded himself that Ms. St. Giles was not his. He navigated her darkened apartment without any thought or consideration for lights and went straight into her bedroom and mentally insisted that she was not his. He did not pull down the blankets just yet. Instead, he carefully (carefully, carefully) set her on the edge of the bed. (And reiterated to himself that she wasn't his.)
"Stay seated for just a second," he said, guiding her hands to the edge of her bed for something to hold to.
He always saw very well at night. But lately, it seemed his night vision was improving. He headed out of her bedroom and straight into the adjoining master bathroom. The medicine cabinet was well stocked, but he didn't struggle to pick out the few prescription bottles -- and then read them in the light coming in from the small bathroom window. One to two, it said. He palmed the bottle, then left for the kitchen. She was breathing raggedly as he passed through her bedroom, and he winced once his back was to her.
"I hope it helps," he said when he returned, pressing the glass of water into one of her hands, and two pills into the other. While she saw to dosing herself, he went around and turned down the bed. "If you'd like, I'll come to check on you in a few hours."