He looks at me. A frown pinches between my brows at the haunted look in his eyes.
“What happened?” The words hurry out, laced with concern.
He shakes his head.
“Something must have happened. But if you don’t want to share, it’s fine. I won’t push you.” Even though I want to, but it’s useless.
“So, as I was saying: forget this morning. Can we be friends?” I extend my hand.
He takes my hand in a careful grip, holding it a few seconds longer than is friendly.
I purse my lips and snatch my hand back. “Don’t you dare give me mixed signals.”
In response, he does the only thing he’s best at: stare. I can tell his mood is in the gutter, or I’d point out that staring, too, qualifies as a mixed signal in my book.
We eat in silence.
I glance at his plate, he’s barely touched his food. Okay, now his bad mood is giving me real concern.
He gets up. I do too, moving to his side and taking his arm. He looks at my hands around his elbow, then up at my face.
“Friends hold hands,” I say with an excessively friendly smile.
I slide my hand lower and hold his—over his glove.
“Why do you always wear gloves?” I ask as we leave the dining room.
“I have haphephobia.” His voice is detached.
Now that he’s spoken, I notice the rough texture of his voice. I look up at his face—so tired, dark circles morepronounced than ever. Once again, I find myself in that place where all I can do is helplessly feel bad for him.
Wait. What did he just say? He has what? Haphephobia? Isn’t that the condition where a person feels intense aversion to being touched by others?
“Is that why you ran this morning?” I ask, stunned, stepping into his path.
“I don’t have a problem with your touch.”
I purse my lips.Very comforting.Then frown. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer. I slouch, sighing.
“It’s so difficult to talk to you. It feels like each word costs you a fortune.”
We resume walking toward the stairs.Haphephobia is a psychological condition—people with severe trauma often develop it. Another sign pointing toward his painful past.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I take his hand again.
“Spend some time with Bruno and me,” I offer with a grin.
He nods.
I lead him to Bruno’s room, to the bed. “Sit here.”
He does. I chuckle, watching his large, formidable frame settle onto the small bed. I sit beside him, leaving space for Bruno between us. Bruno promptly claims his spot.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask the handsome grump.
“None.”
