His throat works. His eyes flutter.
“Yes, sir.”
Finally, he leans back into the seat, like all that air I dragged into him needs to settle. His chest rises slow, uneven, the breath of a man still learning how not to drown. My hand stays in his. Not loose, not light—firm. Present. He doesn’t let go, so I don’t either.
“I promised I’d tell you,” Mercer says suddenly. “About my panic attack.”
I hum. Low, steady. The kind of sound that doesn’t push but leaves no room to back out either.
He swallows. His eyes fix on the dark curve of the window, where the clouds glow faint against the moonlight.
“I was twelve. My brother was nineteen. He was driving. Just us in the car. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about—probably something stupid. But we were laughing, too, and then…then it was headlights. Metal. The kind of sound you feel more than you hear. Like the world just—” his hand twitches hard in mine, “—snapped.”
My jaw tightens.
“I walked away. Busted ribs, some stitches, but alive.” His throat works, lips pressing tight, eyes glassy in the half-dark. “He didn’t. Neck broke on impact. Instant.”
The silence around us isn’t silence anymore. It’s pressure. A weight bearing down on both of us.
Mercer drags in another breath, sharp and shaky. “So now, every time it feels like I’m about to die—like that plane was going down yesterday—my head just…goes back there. Doesn’t matter if it’s sharks in the ocean or steel on a highway, it’s the same. I can’t stop it. I spiral. Every fucking time.”
His voice cracks on the last word, thin and vicious, and he tips his head back hard against the seat like he wants to bash it through the wall. “Pathetic, right? Big bad rookie center, scared shitless of turbulence. Not even scared. Losing my fucking mind over it.”
I don’t say anything. Not yet.
Because this isn’t pathetic.
It’s the scar he’s been carrying since he was twelve, buried under the grin and the chirps and the mouth that never quits. A wound that never healed, just festered until it became part of him.
And he handed it to me.
He doesn’t look at me. Not when his throat works. Not when his grip shakes in mine. Not when he whispers so low I almost don’t hear it.
“Now you know, Captain.”
“You’re not pathetic,” I say, even, calm, steel through every syllable. “You’re human. You’ve been carrying that wreck since you were twelve, Mercer. You think it doesn’t leave a mark? Of course it does. You spiral because you survived. That’s not weakness. That’s what makes you dangerous—because you survived when you weren’t supposed to.”
His chest jerks like the words land deeper than he expected.
“And now,” I add, thumb pressing firm against the back of his hand, “we know how to pull you out of it.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
I let the corner of my mouth curve. Not a smile—sharper than that. “Filth, pup. My voice in your ear. You panicked yesterday until I gave you something else to choke on. So now we know. If you spiral again, I’ll drag you back with filth. With orders. With whatever the hell it takes to make you breathe for me.”
For a second, he just stares at me, stunned. Then it breaks out of him—half laugh, half moan. He drops his forehead against the seat in front of him, shoulders shaking.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps, laughter cracked and helpless. “I never—I mean, I never in a million years imagined Damian Kade’s dirty fucking mouth would be what cures my panic attacks.”
My thumb rubs across his knuckles again. His laughter stutters, turns breathless, softer. He leans sideways, shoulder brushing mine, curls falling forward like he’s trying to hide.But I can feel it—the way the panic’s gone. Burned out. Replaced by the reckless fire that always takes its place.
“Guess I’m fucked, huh?” he mutters.
“You’ve been fucked since day one, Mercer,” I answer.
His breath hitches again. But this time it’s not panic.
The flight attendant pauses at our row, smile too bright, voice pitched above the drone of the engines. “Anything to drink?”
