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"You do realize this means you're sleeping in the driver's cabin tonight."
Mikkel opens one eye blearily like he's just trying to be a mutinous little shit, yawns, and tries to roll onto his side before remembering the kitten is still asleep on his stomach. Well, if the kitten's not worried, that's probably a good barometer. But, eh. Something something protocol. It's what Mikkel would want. Sigrun flips through the stack of notes he's left. Dinner for the next two nights is ready, blah blah blah, how to tourniquet a wound --pssh, like she doesn't know that already-- how to amputate, and who can take over what for him in the interim. Something about genetics.
"It's not communicable?" Sigrun looks back up at Mikkel, sunning himself and snorting for all the world like this is fine and dandy. The kitten snoozes on. Sigrun reads the rest of the section. "Well, you're still sleeping separate. I'm not big on bunk funk." Wow, he's even put in tiny diagrams. He really didn't want anyone to shoot him. Ah, whatever. She's worked with weirder.
"Shit, I'd hate to be your parents, though. Six fucking wolf pups."