He led her by the arm upstairs, and she followed like he was leading her to a ritualistic human sacrifice he’d neglected to mention he was planning. He took her into his room, turning on the fireplace, because it made things cozy and it was cold out, and ushered her mechanically through the strange motions. I have some extra clothes you can wear. And a bathrobe I pilfered from my cousin’s hotel. Master bathroom or guest bathroom? Master bathroom is nicer and bigger. Use the master bathroom.

She looked at him with an expression that was at the same time pure need and pure hopelessness. What to do with that?

Fuck it.

He pulled her close into a gentle but firm hug. She allowed it, but stayed tense. It was like hugging a bundle of dry sticks.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, the universal code for “I have no clue what to say.” But she needed to know that he wasn’t pushing her away; he was respecting her boundaries, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to touch her, to comfort her, to—

Oh, boy, let’s not go there.

He stepped back, tilting her head to meet his gaze, and he gave her the most supportive smile he was capable of giving. As she showered, he took a seat in the overstuffed chair that occupied one corner of the master bedroom, which up until this point he had never sat on, listening for anything unusual—glass breaking, an escape attempt, alien screeching.

After the shower ended, he heard his hair dryer clicking on, and hoped it wasn’t being used to mask some other sounds she didn’t want him to hear. Get the guest room ready, he thought. It’s basically ready, isn’t it? What do I need to do, provide turndown service? She probably doesn’t even know what that is. She could sleep in here. She should sleep in here.

Then he wondered, why all this fretting over temptation? She was an adult, and besides, she wasn’t that pretty.

Only she was that pretty, she was just the kind of pretty society had taught people like him to ignore. Her survival strategy in the face of The Broken Seal had apparently been to disappear, doing all she could to distance herself from Nils, literally and emotionally. Nils, his on-and-off collaborator, whom he had helped make an international celebrity. Dear God, but this situation was so fucked up!

The bathroom door cracked open, and she slipped into the bedroom, hair blown dry and fluffy, wearing his pilfered white hotel bathrobe. “Thank you,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of strength.

“You feel better?”

“I think so.”

He stood up from his chair and approached her, restraining the urge to run his fingers through her clean hair. “I guess we should get ready for bed.”