That’s when I notice his breathing.
Too fast. Too shallow. His shoulders are rigid beneath his soaked shirt, and his eyes—his eyes keep darting. Ceiling. Walls. Door. Ceiling again. Like he’s calculating something. Like he’s looking for a way out that doesn’t exist.
“Daniel?”
“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. Bitten off. “Just need to get the stove going. Get you warm.”
He abandons the lantern, moves to the woodstove, yanks open the iron door. His hands shake as he grabs kindling from the basket. He’s going through the motions—crumpling old newspaper from the shelf, stacking small sticks—but his coordination is shot. The newspaper tears. The kindling scatters.
Thunder cracks overhead, and the whole cabin shudders.
Daniel flinches.
Not a small flinch. His whole body goes rigid, eyes snapping to the ceiling like he’s expecting it to come down. His chest heaves. Once. Twice. Three times too fast.
Oh.
Oh.
Eighteen hours trapped in a collapsed building. Two teammates dead. Pinned in the dark while the world pressed down on him.
And I just watched him seal himself into a tiny cabin with a storm raging overhead.
“Hey.” I step toward him, my own fear forgotten. “Daniel. Look at me.”
His eyes find mine. They’re wild. Desperate. The gray has gone almost black, pupils blown wide, leaving nothing of the controlled, commanding man who kissed me in that diner. Nothing of the patient teacher who helped me onto Captain Winky’s back this morning.
This is someone drowning.
“The storm’s moving fast,” I say, keeping my voice calm. Steady. The same voice I used when Kitty woke up screaming after Mom and Dad died, when I had to be the solid thing in a world that had just proven it could take everything. “Listen to the thunder—hear how it’s already farther from the lightning? It’s passing. It’ll blow through in twenty minutes, maybe less.”
His breathing doesn’t slow. His eyes dart to the ceiling again.
“The roof is solid,” I try. “These old line cabins are built to last. And the door—” I glance back at it. “The door opens outward. We’re not trapped. We can leave whenever we want.”
Nothing. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, and his hands have curled into fists at his sides. He’s fighting something. Fighting hard.
I recognize the look. I’ve worn it myself, those nights when the bills piled up and Kitty needed things I couldn’t afford and the walls of whatever cramped apartment we were in felt like they were squeezing the air out of my lungs.
But my tricks aren’t working. Logic isn’t reaching him.
I need something else.
“Daniel.” I step closer, into his space, close enough to touch. “I need you to look at me. Just me. Not the walls, not the ceiling. Me.”
His eyes lock onto mine. Holding on like I’m a fixed point in a spinning room.
“Good. That’s good.” I reach out slowly and take his hand. His fingers are ice cold, trembling, but they close around mine like I’m a lifeline. “Now, I need you to tell me three things you can see. Right now. In this room.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“Three things you can see. Doesn’t matter what. Just name them.”
His throat works. For a long moment, I think he won’t—or can’t—answer. Then: “You.” The word comes out hoarse. “The stove. The... the window.”
“Good. Three things you can hear.”
“Rain.” His breathing is still too fast, but he’s focusing now. Trying. “Your voice. The... wind.”
