One eye squints open to watch Adora, because she doesn't often come to bed sounding so antsy. And she doesn't often miss the opportunity to place her hand on Catra's head, or stroke her fingers along Catra's ears, but here she is basically ignoring her completely.

The lights go off, and Catra moves fluidly. In one movement, her hands find Adora's shoulders, turning her to press her back into the cot; her knees rest on Adora's thighs, and Catra hovers above her with bright, narrowed eyes.

"What's with you?" She demands quietly, voice no less stern for its volume. A thought seizes her, and she leans in close to Adora's face, lifting one hand to press against her forehead. "Are you -- sick?" Because Catra needs advance notice if she needs to be covering for Adora while she's weakened if that's the case. "You have to tell me these things, Adora; you can't just spring them on me."