That evening, when she arrived, he told her, "Please come inside. It's a bit unnerving to have you standing over me in the doorway."
Any excuse to get just that much closer to her.
She crept into the room—what other word for the way she slipped in as if about to run any second—and sat primly on the edge of the hard brown chair across from him.
"Ev-ev-everyone… everyone's accounted, S-s-ser," she stammered out, looking down at hands that whirled and squirmed in her lap.
Maker, she was so terrified of him. It was positively unmanning, was what it was. Was he so dreadful? Ogrelike?
"I won't hurt you," he told her softly. "It's my job to protect you, not harm you." Unless, of course, you decide to become a blood mage or you get possessed. But, other than these minor, measly concerns… the thought hung in the air between them.
"I… I know," she told him, then fled the room.
Well, started to, anyway. But her foot tangled with the chair—and the chair won. She sprawled face-first into the hard, cold stone floor. How he hated this tower and its inhumane coldness!
Rushing around the desk, he helped her up, pressing her down into the chair. Kneeling in front of her, he started to pull her woolen slipper off.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she squeaked like a mouse when she was surprised, he thought, the idea making him grin a bit.
"I need to make sure you're okay," he said. "I can't allow a mage to be wounded on my watch, now can I?"
He wanted an excuse to touch her. But he wasn't going to tell her that.
If ogling was bad, then touching was… well. It was anathema.