The reminder is unwelcome, and he hesitates, his shoulders slumping inward a bit. "Not personally," he admits. "There was a house like that, but I could never find it. I read about it. There was a family that lived there, and..." He shakes his head. She doesn't need to hear about the Navidsons. "I don't know how to explain. It was a book, but it wasn't just a book. It almost destroyed me. It got into my head and my nightmares and it fucked up my entire life."

He shivers at the memory and looks up at the gently glowing time rotor. "I used to obsess over measuring my rooms because I was afraid it was like some kind of disease, that it was going to spread. I was so afraid of that. Doors just showing up, that would lead into this cold, dark infinite void. I dream about that, too." He reaches out and lays his palm timidly on the console. It feels warm and solid, vibrating slightly. "But you're different. That wasn't natural, it was... it was like this monster, this force of architectural wrongness. You're meant to be like this."

He drops his hand and stuffs both into his pockets. "I think I know why I can't be around you," he says, unable to look at her, feeling unspeakably sad. "I think when I came through, the Rift took everything I read in that book and made it a disease. I'm infected. The things I can do, it's all like the house, like it's part of me now. It's in my skin and my blood and my bones. I can warp architecture, unless it's something like you. It's like some kind of polarization, or something. Like magnetic repulsion. You're overwhelming, and I can't get close."

He exhales heavily. He never expected to say so much, especially not to her. He's still got his back to her, apprehensive about her reaction. "I wish it wasn't like that," he murmurs.