He wanted her to tell him about the nightmares she had been having, the same one that often left her hollow just from recalling it.
But her entire being revolted at the thought of confiding in someone like him, of allowing him access to something so deeply personal.
Over the past two weeks, they had tolerated each other well enough. He was gentle and kind when it came to her, but they were not friends. They likely never would be. Not when he was the reason her family's home lay in ruins.
Perhaps in another world, in another life, they might have formed a bond strong enough to overlook the past, a camaraderie built on mutual respect. But here, now, such a thing felt nearly impossible.
Besides, how could she even begin to explain nightmares she barely understood herself?
"Circe."
