They filed out slowly, Mac and William silent as Ivy squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll handle you being pissed at me, but I’d take that a million times over your heart giving out, Oli. So be pissed but stay healthy. Got it?”
I didn’t nod. I patted her hand, giving my oldest friend the only reassurance I could offer. My eyes stung at the realization my time could be up. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t fucking want to stop.
The door clicked, and Sloane’s soft voice filled the space. “Hey, are you okay?”
I wanted to say no. That I hated this. That I was scared shitless. But all I managed was, "Do you believe them? Do you believe I could fucking fall apart?”
She met my gaze, unwavering, intense as she chewed the side of her lip. "I believe in protecting you at all costs, even if it’s protecting you from yourself.”
“Fuck.” I pushed off the chair, gripping my sweaty hair in my hands until it stung. My stomach hollowed out, the wave of nausea hitting me hard as I bent over. I knew what I had to do, and I didn’t want to fucking do it in front of Sloane. “I gotta go.”
“Wait!”
I didn’t wait. I sprinted out of the room and scrambled down the hall toward an empty bathroom. My vision blurred, and I shoved a door open, not caring that it was a utility closet. It was unlocked, and I fell to the floor, heart racing out of fucking control as sweat beaded over my entire body. This part was suffocating, where I gasped for breath and my limbs ached.
Breathe. In. Out. Tap your fingers. Bear down Repeat.
I lay on my back, resting the balls of my feet against the wall as I focused on lyrics to “I was Made for Loving You” by Kiss. My dad always listened to it on the drive to dropping me off at practice, and it became my anthem to settle when these little episodes happened.
I got about thirty seconds into the song when the door opened, followed by Sloane’s gasp. Shame ate at me. The feeling was so aggressive, like a stab in my stomach at what I imagined she saw. Me: weak, pathetic, on the dirty floor trying not to cry or throw up. Trying to get my heart back into its normal rhythm.
She’d tell Mac, Ivy, Booth. She’d have me benched. She’d know I was pathetic and broken, and it was for the best. That I couldn’t be counted on. I clenched my eyes closed, inhaling andexhaling despite the uptick to my pulse. Sometimes, I’d get full body chills. Other times, I’d pass out for a few minutes. It wasn’t often I actually threw up, but it had happened.
I tensed, waiting for her to tell me I was done. For her to tell me to get up and to report me to Mac. I couldn’t even be mad at her. I’d forgive her for it too, that was the thing. I could never be mad at Sloane.
The door clicked, and my throat tightened. She left me.
That was… worse, somehow.
My stomach sank even lower, that she thought I was too pathetic to talk to, and I fisted my hands, digging my nails into my palms.
“Lift your head for me.’
I blinked my eyes open as Sloane lowered herself onto the closet floor, covered in dead bugs and dust. The relief was so sudden, my eyes prickled as she sat criss-cross and lifted my head to rest on her lap.
She didn’t say anything at first.
She shifted her legs slightly so I could rest against her more evenly. Her fingers moved straight to my forehead—pressing into the tightest part above my brow bone, massaging small, steady circles. I let my eyes close again, her touch calming me.
“Your pulse is still elevated,” she said, calm and measured. “I’m going to help bring it down first, okay?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak. My throat felt like sandpaper.
Her fingers worked their way down the side of my face, across my temple, down the hinge of my jaw. Each point she pressed eased some of the pressure behind my eyes. My breathing didn’t even out yet, but it didn’t spike worse.
“I’m not going to tell you you’re fine,” she said, her hand moving to the back of my head. She scratched gently at my scalp, her touch familiar and soft and reassuring. “But you’re here, safe, with me, and not a failure.”
I exhaled. It was shaky. It rattled my entire body.
She reached for my hand next, unclenching my fist. Her fingers curled around mine. “You’ve been white-knuckling for too long. This isn’t you breaking, Oliver. This is your body asking for help, and it’s time to listen.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I squeezed her hand once, holding on tighter than I should’ve. If she let go right now, I wasn’t sure I’d make it.
“We’ll move through this. Slowly,” she said, thumb brushing my palm. “But you can’t ignore it anymore. I won’t let you, and I’m speaking both as Doctor Mercer and as the woman you’re seeing.”
The tears came without warning. They didn’t crash. They didn’t choke me. They slipped out, hot and slow, sliding into my hairline while I stayed right there, head in her lap, chest rising too fast.
She didn’t react to them. Didn’t comment. She kept holding my hand. Kept rubbing my scalp. Kept anchoring me to the floor of a goddamn closet.
