"Can't breathe." Getting the words out takes everything I have.
"I know. But you can breathe. You're breathing right now." His hand moves slowly before resting gently on my knee. "Feel my hand. That's real. This corridor is real. Mateo's compound is thousands of miles away, and he's dead."
"Dead." I latch onto that word like a lifeline. "He's dead."
"Yeah. Hawthorne made sure of that. You're safe."
The breathing exercises start working. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out. My chest loosens slightly.
Colton stays crouched in front of me, hand steady on my knee, waiting while I piece myself back together.
"I'm sorry," I manage finally. "I don't know what triggered it."
"You don't apologize for panic attacks." His voice carries absolute certainty. "Trauma doesn't follow logic."
"How do you know?"
"Because I get them too." The admission comes quietly. "Not as often now, but they still happen. Usually when I'm alone in tight spaces or when something reminds me of missions that went wrong."
I've never heard him talk about his own struggles. "What do you do?"
"Ground myself. Focus on what's real instead of what my brain is telling me." His thumb moves in small circles on my knee. "Usually helps to have someone talk me through it."
We sit in silence for several minutes. My breathing evens out. The panic recedes.
"I hate that he still has this power over me," I say quietly. "Mateo's been dead for years, but I'm still letting him control me."
"That's not how trauma works." Colton shifts to sit beside me, back against the wall. "He doesn't have power over you. Your brain is trying to protect you from threats it perceives based on past experience."
"How do you know so much about this?"
"Mandatory psych evals after missions. Plus Kane made us all talk to therapists after some of the harder operations." His mouth quirks slightly. "Turns out operators aren't immune to psychological damage."
"Revolutionary concept."
"Yeah, well, Kane's nothing if not practical." Colton's hand is still on my knee. "You want to talk about it? The compound?"
Every instinct screams to deflect, to change the subject. But Colton just shared something vulnerable with me. And maybe talking about it will make the walls feel less like a prison.
"I never told you the whole story," I hear myself say. "About what happened in Mexico."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." Surprising myself with how true that is. "I went there after you left. Humanitarian aid work seemed like the perfect escape. I met Mateo at a clinic. He seemed normal. Charming. Helpful."
Colton's hand tightens slightly on my knee, but he doesn't interrupt.
"I didn't know he was cartel until I moved in with him. By then, I was pregnant and trapped." The words come easier now. "Lucas was born in that compound. I spent over a year watching armed guards patrol outside my windows, knowing I was property."
"Rachel—"
"The worst part wasn't the guards or the locked doors." Meeting his eyes. "The worst part was sharing his bed. Letting him touch me because refusing meant he'd hurt Lucas. Knowing my son was growing up in that environment, learning violence and fear as normal, while I played the role of willing partner to keep us both alive."
"But you got out."
"Micah got us out. His CIA team breached the compound and killed everyone inside, including Mateo." I’m remembering that night with crystal clarity. "I was hiding in a bathroom with Lucas while gunfire happened all around us. Micah talked me into opening the door. Then he led us through a house full of bodies and put us on a helicopter to freedom."
Colton's jaw works. "I should have been there. Should have protected you before any of that happened."
