Fox reached around with one hand and turned the shower off. The absence of water had my skin instantly warming with Fox’s body all around me.
“I’ve never dealt with panic attacks, but August struggled with some PTSD when he left the Marines.” He stepped out of the shower, our clothes dripping everywhere—like it was the most normal thing in the world. “He’s doing a lot better, but I saw him struggle with some episodes early on. I looked up everything I could that would help him, and one of the suggestions I read somewhere mentioned ice. Putting ice or cold water on the face to shock the system. Almost like a reset button.”
He reached for a white, fluffy towel hanging on the rack and wrapped it around me, not hesitating for a moment as he walked to the counter and set me on top of it.
Settling the towel around my shoulders, he smoothed my wet, straggly hair out of my face. “Stay right here,” he instructed.
I did. I watched as he disappeared out of the open door—a door that was suddenly missing a knob.
He was back quickly, his backpack dangling from his hand. Setting the bag on the counter beside me, he met my gaze.
“There are a few changes of shirts and sweats in there. The clothes will be big, but I’m sure you can make it work. There are also new toiletries. Take whatever you need. Get out of those wet clothes.”
I stared at him blankly. Overwhelmed, the building tiredness in my bones had me merely nodding at his instructions.
He leaned close again, his eyes checking mine like he was looking for any hint of panic. “I’ll be right out there. Waiting.”
I nodded.
He straightened, gave me one last once-over and left me alone in the bathroom, closing the knobless door as best he could.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t running. I was still. Safe. And somehow, that scared me more than I wanted to admit.
22
Fox
IhatedhowimpatientIwas, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. I forced myself to lay on the bed, facing the door that separated us. The only thing calming me, letting me know she was up and moving, were the faint shadows cast from under the bathroom door.
My heart continued to race. I laid my hand over my bare chest, willing the thing to calm down. I’d shucked off my wet shirt and it laid forgotten on the floor. The image of her, pale and sobbing, was embedded into my mind. Skye was always the image of strength to me. I had barely ever seen her cry.
Not even when she was in the hospital after losing our baby.
Not even when she hugged her little brother goodbye.
Not even when she left town without me.
But what I’d seen in that bathroom, the pure fear in her…it was shocking. Terrifying. It reminded me that she wasn’t bulletproof. She wasn’t made of stone.
She was broken, too.
And all I wanted to do was help her put those pieces back together.
I glanced quickly up at the ceiling as the bathroom door inched open. Pretending I hadn’t been watching the door like a hawk.
“What did you do with the doorknob?” she asked.
I pointed to the desk, where I’d laid the knob after picking it up off the floor. “I needed to get through that door somehow. It was locked.” I chanced a glance at her.
My breath caught. Her hair was still wet. The dark, almost black tendrils had been neatly brushed and fell to her shoulders. My T-shirt was too big for her, the sleeves falling to her elbows. The hem would’ve almost reached her knees if she hadn’t tucked in the front. She’d tied the drawstring of the sweats tight around her waist to keep them from falling off. It probably wouldn’t be the worst thing if they did, though.
I’d seen her in just my T-shirt before, and those were good memories.
Skye shifted on her feet. “Don’t stare at me like that,” she complained.
“Stare at you like…what?”
“I know I look ridiculous.” Her cheeks reddened.
