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She knows that he really loves her. That he would rather live with her, with all of her plethora of issues, than live without her.
She knows this because he gets up early to cook her breakfast every morning, a habit that started back when they were “just roommates” and has now become a solid part of their daily routine since she went home with him her first night in Baton Rouge and never left.
She knows it by the way his eyes light up when he catches sight of her across the room, when she shows up in the rehabilitation wing in time for lunch— like he’s reliving the euphoria of seeing her walk through those glass doors for the first time all over again.
She knows he loves her because he could finish any fight with “I’d be better off if I’d never met you” and have a guaranteed, indisputable win— after all, he’d be right— and still he never has, not once, not in all of the rows they’ve had since she moved here. She figures he must have thought it before, probably less now than he used to, and still those words have never escaped past his lips, not in her presence, even in the most brazen of flares.
Because even when she makes him angry, even when she deserves it, he never has any desire to hurt her.