“Slow down,” I whine, trying my best to match Brody’s gait.

We’ve been doing the same run twice daily for months. Sometimes, we even double the distance. Effectively conditioned or not, my body isn’t cooperating today. It’s violently protesting the palpitation of my heart last night. Waking up was tough. While I spent a steady twelve hours sleeping, I’m still lost to the comforting thrall of that deadener. Things are sluggish. Suffice it to say, I’m not a fan of the lingering depletion.

“Slowpoke,” he teases, but he hits the brakes so I can catch up.

I stop to walk, which is flat-out abnormal. “What’s your hurry?”

He continues running circles around me. Hmm. His fidgeting is suspect. When I catch his eye, his gaze pivots. My emotion reading is back, and for some reason, Brody’s feeling guilty?

“Hey.” I skim his sweat-covered bicep. The muscle responds, flexing against my fingers. “You okay?”

He pulls away from me. “Little edgy.”

I furrow my brow, stopping dead in my tracks. The boy needs a fix, but he won’t break the energy abstinence promise he made to his conscience. Will he let me offer an ear, at least? “Wanna talk it out?”

He sighs, sweeping back his surfer-boy hair. “We talk too much as it is.”

“Impossible,” I tut. “We’re friends, right?”

He eyes me warily. “That’s a weird question.”

“It’s a rhetorical question.” I roll my eyes. “Obviously, we are.”

“Obviously.” He mimics my eye roll, so I glower at him.

I have an ample supply of the fuel he requires. Ordinarily. Maybe not right this second, but it’s typically not an issue. The issue is usually there’s too much. “Friends have to take care of each other.”

“I have to take care of you. It’s my job.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t help him. It’s foolish not to. It’s equivalently foolish for him not to accept the offer. There’s no point in beating around the bush. If he has his way, he’ll frustrate me into avoiding the suggestion. Hard no on that. “I could help you like Connor,” I blurt.

“Forget it.” He shakes his head, taking off at a quick stride.

Could be he’s too pigheaded to ask, but that won’t stop me from taking matters into my own hands, especially since he’s all bark. No bite. Do I have the drive to chase him? No. Not today. Mercy of all mercies, he spins to face me, running in place. “Let me help you,” I beg.

“You coming?” He totally ignores my plea, though I know full well he heard it. How do I know? His guilt lashed me like a whip.

I prepare to throw a proper tantrum as required. “Let me make this bearable for you.”

“I’ve got it under control,” he claims through gritted teeth.

Is accepting help from me so emasculating he’d rather suffer than satisfy his needs? I shift the ground at my feet, not looking him in the eye. “Well, I won’t be sticking around to watch you come unglued.”

“What’s your big plan?” he challenges. “Gonna stop running with me? You have to run.”

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“I have to run. I don’t have to run with you.”

“Seriously?” He clenches his jaw. “How’s that going to impact me, exactly?”

“Then I’ll stop running. Period.”

“You can’t stop running.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You’ll blow up,” he reminds me. “ka-BOOM!”

My tinder heart is strumming again, for a different reason. I’m scared he won’t let me help him. While not precisely out of control, he’s running low on energy. It’s only a matter of time before he’s convulsing on the small bed in the cabin like Connor did not long ago. Why does he expect me to suffer his suffering when it can easily be avoided?

The sadness in his eyes is difficult not to react to, but I have to throw up my stoic shield. He doesn’t want my empathy. He wants my acceptance. As he takes hold of my chin and tips my face to meet his gaze, it’s like looking straight into the sky. “You have enough people to worry over right now.”

“You’re one of them.”

“My job description specifically states the opposite.”

“I’m the boss here.” I shake my face free from his meaty paws. “I’m rewriting your job description this very minute. It now says to do what you’re told.”

“My job is to look after you, but that doesn’t make you my boss.” He winks and kisses my forehead.

My groan is the epitome of frustrated. “Can’t I choose who I help? I want to help you.”

He tips his head to the side. “I only have one person to consider. You have a lot.”

I square my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“You’re tired.”

“You’re tired,” I echo.

“Let me worry about me,” he pleads softly.

“It doesn’t work like that.” I stomp my foot. “It’s a two-way street.”

“It’s not. Technically, it’s a one-way street.” He points to the road sign, proving his rightness.

I grumble at his opportunistic semantics. I hate that his sense of responsibility means my protection equals his suffering. He’s right. I can’t force something he doesn’t want. Bulldozer tactics aren’t getting us where we need to be as a team. Not being around him, and wondering what’s happening to him, would be far worse than watching it happen. Probably.

“Why do you run with me every day?”

“I thought you were running with me?” My tone is so full of snark I’m half-annoyed at myself.

“You’ve got enough people taking something from you. I’m here to ensure they don’t take too much.”

“So, you’re babysitting me.” I stomp my foot again, instantly realizing my childish behavior is strengthening his case.

“No, I’m protecting an investment.”

I clench my fists at my sides. “Right, you’re a faithful employee.”

He smiles mockingly. “Some people actually like their jobs.”

I switch lanes. “People get paid for their work.”

He frowns.

I narrow my eyes at him, rubbing the left one furiously when it starts twitching. “Well, they do!”

“Honestly, if I thought you had it in you, I might chew it over. You don’t.”

“Who are you to tell me what I do and don’t have?”

“I’m the only one in this whole mess who has that ability.”

“How do you figure?”

“I’m the least emotionally invested in your prodigal position.”

His indifference cuts deep. Did I completely misread our friendship? Am I just an objective to him? Succumbing to emotions sucks. Doing it in front of someone who doesn’t care either way how I feel super sucks.

He wipes at the fresh tears trailing down my cheeks. “Whoa, easy there.”

I try to swat his oversized hands away from my face, but he just grabs mine in his.

“I meant I don’t care about the future mapped out for you.” He squeezes my hands gently, and the warmth in his tone soothes me. “I only care about you. Not their plans.”

I believe him. How can I not? Being able to read his emotions is like having a built-in lie detector. He’s tasked with protecting me, and he’ll do that, but he’ll do it his own way. No amount of pleading, tears or no tears, will sway him. While the Tribunal wants to make sure my powers have a future, Brody wants to make sure I have a future. I wrap my arms around him, sobbing into his bare chest. It’s pretty gross and sweaty. Now it’s covered in snot. Even grosser.

We’re interrupted by a thunderous throat-clearing, followed by jealousy-coated throwing daggers released when my gaze meets his. Derry’s deadly serious expression has me taking a step back, closer to Brody. Brody’s possessive nuance, while tamed substantially, still exists, and he places his hands like vice grips on my arms.

“Let go,” I whisper.

“You heard her,” Derry seethes.

Brody walks me backward. He’s evidently agitated by the elevated testosterone in the air. The only thing keeping him from eliminating the distance between himself and Derry is me.

While there’s no valid reason to be nervous, my heart can’t sync itself with my good sense, and in the pre-attack silence, it’s hammering erratically in my chest. The jolt is enough to activate my robot. With sheer joy, I relinquish the reins. Unfortunately, the free feeling is short-lived. In my robot’s dysfunctional state, it overloads the circuits, thereby flipping the emergency shut-off switch.