People took it the wrong way sometimes, sharing a bed. Not everyone had grown up with bedtime with a tangle of warm bodies, elbows all in the wrong places, everything smelly and awkward and warm. If squirming was all that woke you up, that was a good night. That was another night alive.
It was never the same people for long, not even as a kid. People disappeared, got out, got replaced, got dead. Blair disappeared, got out, got replaced, stayed alive. And always, never sleeping alone. It didn't matter who it was, what small body warmed yours, if it meant you weren't dead of cold in the morning. If it meant surviving another night.
Blair saw what happened to people on their own.
She'd got pretty good at judging people who couldn't get it, the scum who'd go ahead and grope you anyway. She'd got too good at the disappointment when people were less than they ought to be, too good at the swift delivery of pain that meant you got out, and Blair didn't often get it wrong. Because in the morning you had to be able to trust people all over again. And people didn't always seem worth it.
But people always had to be worth it. You couldn't go on if they weren't. Blair had seen that too.
As an adult, as a fighter, you slept alone if you had to. You dealt with the fear, you slept alone, you got up in the morning, and did your job, again and again till you died. Like humanity was worth it. Like the war would ever end. You had to believe it would end.
You slept alone if you had to. But given the choice, Blair'd take someone to fight beside her. Given the choice, she'd never sleep alone.