She braced for him to walk away or, for some sense to return to her limbs and to turn away herself. She still didn't move. She disliked the tension in her limbs, this false armor of civility they both wore. This felt false, a lie she told as she stood apart from him when she was meant to reach for his hand.

But she had no right to reach for him; had no reason for the tightness in her chest as she watched his posture stiffen. She averted her gaze to do them both a kindness, but they snapped back at his words. For a moment, they remain unguarded, her surprise and question visible as she watched him. She'd expected dismissal, not time with him. She was unready for how giddy the prospect made her. She disliked this immensely.

"Thank you. I would be glad to accompany you." Polite, amiable, mundane, and painful. She couldn't ask what she needed to know to sleep better at night. She had no way to aid him or ask how he fared. The word was his father was unwell, but the relationship between father and son was a contentious one, she'd learned. And she couldn't ask him anything here; she couldn't risk burdening his mind with questions he wouldn't answer for her. She was so limited, and it vexed her, but she wouldn't sacrifice a second of her time with him. "Lead on, Professor Griffith." She took care not to caress his name and tried not to let fondness lengthen vowels, but it felt like a costly exercise.

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   Samuel Griffith