“But I honestly don’t think playing is in your best interest.Do you?”
The room crushes in.Her words flatten something inside me I didn’t realize was still breathing.My lungs constrict, breath coming too fast.The space between us shrinks and warps and spins.I can’t hold on to anything.
My fingers curl into the edge of the table.Everything tilts to the side.The floor feels like it drops beneath me, and I’m gasping like I’ve been sucker-punched.
“Rod?”
Her voice cuts through the haze.
Fuck.Fuck.
My throat closes.My pulse throbs in my ears.I can’t breathe.Not really.I’m trying, but it’s like dragging air through concrete.
Suddenly, she’s out of her chair and kneeling in front of me, hands raised but not yet touching.Her voice low, urgent, not pitying, not placating—real.
“Hey.Look at me.”
I do.Or try to.Her eyes are locked on mine.
“Rod, focus.Inhale through your nose.Slow.Count with me.”
Then she touches me—hand sliding over mine, palm warm and sure, her grip pressing into my skin like she’s tethering me to right now.
“Five seconds in,” she says, her breath fanning against my cheek.“One ...two ...three ...four ...five.Now hold.And release.”
I match her rhythm because I have no choice.Her voice is a metronome.Her body is inches from mine.Her knees touch mine, everything in me short-circuiting.All I can feel is her skin, her breath, and her perfume—dark, sweet, the smell of late nights and something I don’t have a name for but once made a home in.
She leans closer, her forehead almost brushing mine.“I’m here,” she whispers.“Just breathe.You’re okay.”
And the way she says it—low and rough and close—does something dangerous to me.
I swallow.Hard.My hand still trembles under hers, but it’s slowing now.Calming.
Her breath is warm.Her lips are right there.So fucking close I could tilt forward and taste her.
And I want to.God, I want to.
Even though she hates me.Even though I ruined her.Even though I’m barely standing upright inside my own body.
Every nerve in me is reaching for her.
And I don’t know if I’m breathing better because she’s calming me down—or because the rush of need between us just tore through the panic like a goddamn wildfire.
And I do.
Not because I believe it.But because she’s touching me.
Because Kit fucking Dempsey is kneeling on the floor, helping me breathe through the urge to fall apart.
And somehow, against all odds, I don’t feel shame this time.
I feel seen.
And, fuck, that’s so much more dangerous.
When I finally manage to take in a full breath, it still tastes like glass and regret.But I’m here.I’m back in my body instead of hovering above it like a glitching projection.
My hands remain clenched in my lap, blood pulsing beneath skin that feels too tight, too real.Her palm stays on top of my knee—heat radiates straight to my spine, impossible to ignore.
