He doesn’t finish. Just closes his eyes, stills his hand.
Looks at me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. Never mind. You just…” He gestures vaguely at the rest of the suite, breaking his gaze away from mine. I don’t even care about water anymore, but I want to…give him space, I don’t know. I slip over to the cupboard, pull out two glasses, fill them both.
“Here,” I say, returning to Callahan’s side. He takes it, but doesn’t drink.
“Thank you.”
I hold my own water to my chest, studying him.
I don’t want him to have to do this for me.
But I don’t think I can talk him out of it.
“You have to sleep, Cal,” I say gently. “You know that.”
Callahan stares into his glass of water.
“You…” I blow out a breath. Scan around the living area, my slightly-open bedroom door.
“Here.” I move to the door, push it open a few more inches.
Callahan freezes.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m saying it’s okay.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
“Cal,” I say, a bit more sharply. “Come here.”
That does something. His eyes flick wider, his lips part slightly, and he steps over the threshold and past me.
I slip behind him and gently press the door shut.
“Here.” I set my glass of water on my nightstand, take his and put it on the desk, and indicate the loveseat opposite my bed. “Sit.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t move.
“Callahan,” I say, softer. “Come on. If someone…I don’t know, breaks through the window and tries to nab me, you’ll be right here.” I try a smile. “I’ll scream extra-loud and wake you up, promise. Now sit.”
The pink tinge in his ears deepens. But he sits.
“Okay,” I say. And suddenly realize that I now have to lie back down in my bed and attempt to sleep while Callahan O’Brian is barely five feet away from me.
But it’s too late. I’m committed. So I nod, reach under my bedside lamp to flick it off, and insert myself back under the bedclothes.
To my surprise, I’m actually tired. My body feels heavy and relaxed, like having someone to watch over me is an actual reassurance.
“Good night, Gwenna.”
I fall asleep so fast I’m not sure if I ever answer.
I arrive to Emrys’s class with my arms full.
“Julian of Norwich.” I ignore Kingston’s obligatory stand-as-I-enter and lay down the first volume on my desk. “Mechthild of Magedburg. Marguerite Porete. Hildegard von Bingen.” I stack them awkwardly, the bound facsimiles all of differing sizes and conditions, some of the bindings so weak that they’re frayed and splintering, others tight with leather that hasn’t been cracked in years, maybe decades. Satisfied that they’re stable, I take a step back. “To start, anyway.”
Kingston considers them. Looks to Emrys.
