He'd tried, a few times, to get her to go home - no matter what the effect on both of them would be. She could at least sleep better in an actual bed... at least until the nightmares came. Maybe there wouldn't be that much difference at all. But several nights in a chair couldn't be comfortable, and Peeta was worried that if she insisted she keep staying there, that she'd turn into the next patient. He'd gladly take her with him in bed, but just to start with the bed wasn't big enough for two people, except perhaps small children, and Beverly had given them a pointed look when she'd said to spare his healing leg any extraneous pressure.

(Still, but for the bed size, and the way he already almost filled it, he'd've asked her to lay down on his left side. They'd done it before, but this time they were being watched in person.)

But one morning when he wakes up, about a week after getting attacked, Peeta can't keep a small look of worry and concern off his face as he looks at her posture and judges how much she must be aching by now. "Hey," he says quietly, so as not to disturb the others. "We can get another bed in here and you can sleep on that. You're going to hurt yourself." She's more important than him. She's always more important than him.