“Emma…”
He drops to his knees in front of me, and heat pools in my center at the sight of it.
“Emma…” He’s whispering, almost reverently, as his hands slide up to my hips.
“Steven, please,” I practically whimper his name, and his body reacts with a shiver down his chest. “What is going on?”
“I’m in love with you.” He nearly shouts it, like containing it was near impossible.
I gape at him, his words lost in translation somewhere behind every anxious thought I’ve ever had about a boy, or dating, or falling in love. Because all those thoughts mean absolutely nothing now.
Now I know where the pain was coming from. My brain knew I was falling in love with this man too, and it couldn’t take it. Anxiety bubbles up in my throat, and I start coughing.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t…” My words choke against the fire climbing in my chest. “I… I can’t…”
My brain feels detached from my body, the things I’m thinking refuse to reach my lips.I think I’m having a panic attack, and I don’t know why. I think I should’ve told Steven weeks ago that I have anxiety. I think it’ll probably pass if I can just push through.I painstakingly reach for the words, the ability to verbalize these things in any possible way.
But none of it comes. Every thought is swallowed by the suffocating pressure now closing in on me. I clutch at my chest, my throat, my shoulders. My heartbeat thrashes against my sternum.
“Here,” Steven says, taking my hands and crossing them over my chest, then mirroring the movement on himself. “Follow my lead.”
He starts tapping rhythmically on his shoulders.Tap, tap, tap.I hesitate, not knowing how this could possibly help me. My head starts to ache as the pulse of panic starts to flood up my neck and into my temples. Still, Steven keeps tapping, steady, encouraging.
I give in. Anything to make this stop. I can’t let myself fall apart in front of this man. I can’t let my uncontrollable emotions disrupt this—whateverthisis. I tap along, quickly pulled into the rhythm, focusing on matching each beat against my collarbone. Determination rises. If I can keep perfect time, I can get control back.
“You’re doing amazing,” he whispers, drawing a slow breath in, still tapping. I don’t know how, but suddenly I’m copying him with an inhale, slow and steady. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Following his lead feels easy, natural.
His big hands slide from his chest to my hips, grounding me, exaggerating each breath for me to follow. His nostrils flare, lips puffing out with every exhale, and the seriousness of his expression almost makes him look ridiculous. A short, shaky laugh slips out of me, chased by another jagged breath.
“Am I doing it wrong?” he asks, his face serious.
I laugh slightly. “No.” The crack in my voice doesn’t reassure him. “You’re just so serious.”
“This is serious, Emma. You’re having a panic attack.” His eyes are wet when they flicker all around me, scanning me as though afraid to miss something. But he doesn’t lose focus. “Let’s breathe again.”
We do five more rounds together, and slowly, the tidal wave recedes. My chest stops heaving. My breathing evens out.
“What do you hear?” he asks.
This question throws me. “What?”
“Right now. Name something you hear right now.”
I blink at him, my chest still tight but manageable. “I hear… your stomach growling.”
He chuckles. “I hear yours. Now, what do you taste?”
I lick my lips, catching the faint trace of his mint Chapstick. “Mint.”
“Good, now what do you see?” His brown eyes, deep and usually alive with untamed emotion, are piercing as they hold steady on me.
“I see you.”
“And I see you.”
I’m rooted in place by the weight of his voice, the unspoken commitment that lingers there. There’s no space for doubt. He sees me, every messy part of me, and he’s still here.
