Pain.
Want.
Restraint.
I hated the dream for giving me words like“worshipful”and“precious,”because now my brain kept trying to connect things that had no business being connected.
“I will try to hide my worry.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I groaned, looking away. “It doesn’t matter. I need the bathroom.”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “I can take you to your office bathroom. If you can walk.”
I laughed under my breath. “If I can walk?”
“If you cannot, I will carry you.”
My eyes snapped to him. “No.”
“I said if.”
“No.”
“Then I will support you.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened, but he did not move. “You should not put weight on that ankle without assistance.”
“I’m not letting you carry me.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not letting you touch me.”
He closed his eyes briefly, not in annoyance, but more something that looked like restraint. “Then Ben can assist you.”
“I don’t want Ben touching me either.”
“I will have Ben bring a crutch,” he said. “Or something close enough to function as one until I can acquire a proper set.”
“I—fine, whatever.”
Tobias looked at me, and I felt the dream again with sudden, nauseating clarity—his hand on the other side of the glass, his eyes full of reverence, the barrier between us cold and transparent and impossible.
This was the barrier.
When I said nothing more, he lowered his gaze to the tray. “Please eat something while I get what you need.”
“Stop saying please like it makes this polite.”
His eyes lifted back to mine. “I am not trying to be polite.”
“What are you trying to be?”
His hand flexed against the doorframe, fingers long and tense, and I wondered if he was thinking about the same dream I was, which was impossible because it had been mine, and then I wondered if there was a camera feed of me sleeping with my hand pressed to the wall.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost too quiet to carry. “Careful.”
