"At least if we're here, we'll learn how to manage." her lips thinned into a flat line. "... and honestly, Feo, I'm not looking forward to causing an international incident by going back." she didn't need Kyros to hold another thing over her head. "Everything gets worse from here. It's better to get used to the idea now."

Just like she got used to the idea of being constantly at war with her cousin?
He didn't want this to be his life. He knew she couldn't return to Atherdale, but why did they have to be here, of all places?
"I don't know why anybody fucking lives here," he muttered.

"Because it's their home." she shrugged. "Because it's all they know. Because they go super saiyan when they're high on Altair fumes?"

"I didn't expect you to be the one pushing the silver lining in this scenario." He admitted. "Can we just for a single second acknowledge how fucked that all was?"

"Yeah. It was fucked." she looked down at her palms, closing them and opening them again. There was dark material beneath her glossy nails. "... I stabbed it. I've never stabbed anyone before."

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

Obviously not. But he was freaking out, and his nose was bleeding, and she didn't know what else might have gone wrong with his chronokinesis. One of them had to be the grounded one, the eye of the storm and whatever, though she felt more like the last stake holding down a tent in a hurricane. "I'm fine," she said, because what else was there to say? That she'd wanted to stab people before but had too much impulse control to follow through, and now that she'd done it, she found that she didn't really like it but that she'd do it again in a heartbeat? Would she tell him that every time she turned her back to an open space she felt like Melat was creeping up on them, even though Melat was in several pieces on the floor and now being bled out around their house? Of course she wouldn't, because that would only make things worse.
She knew what Feo thought of her, both in general and with the Kyros situation. High-maintenance and unreasonable, unforgiving and contrite. He'd accused her of being those things and more, but she wouldn't let him accuse her of being weak. She wasn't going to be the vulnerable one in their equation, and she certainly wasn't going to make him feel like he had to shoulder the burden of her emotions. Though she'd never asked him to in the first place, he'd prod his way into the center of her drama and then complain to Sparrow about how much drama there was, leaving Parisa looking and feeling like a hysterical fool. He could sit on his stoop and wallow in his despair. She would resolve this latest trauma on her own.

"I feel like that's not true but I'll let you have it for now," he buried his fingers in his hair, inhaling deeply before a curt exhale. "You're right. We'll figure out a way through this."

“I hope they clean up the house.” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I don’t want to mop Melat off the floor.”

"We are not doing that," he agreed. "I'm sure they have people around with experience cleaning... viscera. If it's such a common problem, they should, anyway."