In the end, no matter what the circumstance, she only ever managed to hurt herself. She paused where she stood, palm still stinging. In a moment of childish panic, she wondered if palms bruised. Would hers? Was that the sort of smack that would leave a mark on her own skin? Jeez, it'd been years since she'd had to live to completely without her ability to heal -- it was as if she expected every little gust and bump to leave her black and blue. It made her feel weak.

And he made her feel...what? Angry. Rejected -- but not in a way at all common to her past experience. He made her feel clumsy. Most of all, he made her feel unfulfilled. No matter the selfish roots of the action, she did want to help. Still did, in a twisted and masochistic sort of way.

"You want alone? We can do alone. Take the week off work," she commanded through gritted teeth. "Stupor yourself. Find some buxom bandaid to ride off into the sunset if that's what heals what ails you. I don't care. Just don't you dare step into my bar for a damn good and full seven days. Got that, Horner?"

She didn't move. Not yet. Not while the conditions rang in the air -- a desperate bid not to see him until her hurt feelings had healed, all under the guise of trying to offer some paltry form of vacation.