"Max." I set down the gauze —my hands are shaking slightly too, I realize, from adrenaline, from concern, from something else I don't want to name— and look at him. "What happened tonight?"
"Nothing," his voice shakes. The word cracks in the middle. His breath hitches. His eyes are too bright.
"Bullshit. You don't destroy your hands over nothing." I step closer. Not quite touching but close. Close enough that he has to look up at me. Close enough that he can't escape.
His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle flex. Watch his throat work as he swallows. Watch his eyes dart toward the door then back to me. "Just drop it."
"I can't drop it when you're sitting in my kitchen bleeding—" My voice is rising. I force it back down. Calm. Be calm. He doesn't need anger right now.
"Exactly! It's your kitchen!" The words come out sharp. Desperate. Loud. Aggressive. His chest heaving. His hands clenching despite the pain it must cause. "It's your house. It's not—I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere. And now—"
He stops. Abrupt. Like he's said too much. Like he's revealed something he didn't mean to. Clamps his mouth shut. His lips press into a thin line. His jaw locks. His whole face closes off.
"Now what?" I lean in. Not aggressive. Concerned. Trying to see past the walls. Trying to understand.
He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.No.
His breathing is getting worse. Faster. Each inhale shorter than the last. Each exhale trembling. His chest is heaving like he's run a marathon. Like he's drowning. Sliding into a full panic attack. I've seen this before. I know where this goes if I don't intervene.
I've seen them before. Too many times. Zero after jobs that go wrong. Bane after Mom died. Even me, once, when I was younger and things got too heavy. I know the signs. I know the progression. I know how bad it can get.
But Max is—worse than either of them. Worse than I've seen. Spiraling so fast I'm worried he's going to pass out. Or worse.
He's spiraling. Free-falling. Coming apart. And I'm the only one here to catch him.
"Hey." I step closer. Right into his space. Close enough that I'm all he can see. Right into his space. Between his knees. My thighs against the marble. My body caging his. Protective. Grounding. Inescapable. "Look at me."
He doesn't. His eyes are unfocused. Staring past me. At something. At nothing. At everything.
"Max. Look at me." Firm. Command. Alpha voice. The one that compels obedience not through threat but through certainty.
His eyes snap to mine. Wild. Glazed. Terrified. Like a trapped animal. Like someone who's already decided they're going to die. Unfocused.
"Breathe," I say firmly. Not a request. An order. A lifeline. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. With me."
I demonstrate. Exaggerated. Obvious. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Slow. Steady.
He tries to follow. His breath stutters. Catches. Fails. Fails. His breath hitches. A sob tries to escape. He chokes it back. Tries again.
"Again," I say. Patient. Steady. Like I have all night. Like I'll stand here and breathe with him for hours if that's what it takes. "In. Hold it. Out."
He's still shaking. Violently now. His whole body trembling. I can see it. Feel it. His knee knocking against my hip.
I reach up. Slow. Telegraph the movement. Let him see it coming. Cup his face with both hands. My palms against his cheeks. My fingers sliding into his hair. Force him to focus on me and nothing else. On my eyes. On my voice. On the steady rhythm of my breathing. On something other than the panic.
I can feel his pulse hammering under my palms. Hummingbird fast. Dangerous. Way too fast. His heart is going to give out if he doesn't calm down.
"Breathe with me," I say again. Quieter. Gentler. My thumbs stroke across his cheekbones. Soothing. The way you gentle a horse. The way you calm something wild. "Come on, Max. You can do this."
In. I breathe in. Audible. Obvious. Watch me. Follow me.
Hold. Count it. One. Two. Three. Four.
Out. Slow. Controlled. Let it go.
His breathing slows. Just slightly. Just a fraction. But it's something. It's progress. Just slightly.
In. Again. We'll do this all night if we have to.
