“We’retrapped?—”
“It’s fine?—”
“I can’t—I need—” The words won’t come. Nothing will come except this horrible wheezing sound that can’t possibly be coming from me, but it is, itis, I think I might be dying?—
“Fuck it.”
Bastian’s hands move from mine to my collar, and then I hear fabric rip.
Cool air hits my throat, my collarbone, the hollow at the base of my neck. I suck in a breath. Then another. Another.
“There,” Bastian urges. “That’s it. Breathe with me. In through your nose—yes, like that—hold it—now, out through your mouth.”
I try to follow his instructions, but my lungs are still doing their impression of a fish flopping on a dock. In, out, in, out, except nothing feels likeenough.
“You’re okay,” he says again. His hands are on my shoulders now, grounding me. “You’re safe. I promise. Nothing’s going to hurt you here.”
“You—you just—you ripped my shirt—” I manage between gasps.
“I know. I’m sorry. But you couldn’t breathe.”
“It was—it was sofreakingexpensive?—”
And then, because my brain has decided now is the perfect time to completely malfunction, I start laughing. Or maybe crying. Possibly both. It’s hard to tell when your entire nervous system is staging a coup.
“I’ll buy you ten new shirts,” Bastian says. “A hundred. Whatever you want. Just please keep breathing.”
I nod. Each breath comes a little bit easier than the one before.
It helps that Bastian is rubbing those circles again. They’re on the back of my neck this time, his huge hand cradling my head gently as he strokes tiny little laps around my nape.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Stay with me.”
The flashlight on the floor casts our shadows huge and distorted against the elevator walls. In the dim glow, I can see Bastian’s face, and my God, has anything ever looked more beautiful?
“Say that again,” I whisper hoarsely.
Bastian blinks. “Say what?”
My pulse kicks up another notch. This is a terrible idea. Possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had, and that’s really saying something.
But I’m so tired of being careful. So, so tired of swallowing back the things I want to say.
I had ninety days. I’m down to eighty-four now. What’s the point of having a countdown if you don’t do anything with the time you have left?
“Say ‘fuck it.’”
A pause.
Then Bastian nods slowly. Somehow, he understands what I’m asking.
His eyes search mine in the dim glow of the phone flashlight, looking for something; I’m not sure what. Permission? A sign that I’ve lost my mind?
He’ll find both if he looks hard enough.
“Eliana…”
“I know.”
