Bodhi was having a panic attack.
Carefully, I edged closer to him, creating enough space to shut the door behind me. After all, he’d come here for privacy. The last thing he needed was another audience. That should be saved for when he was onstage.
I held out my hand, and when my fingers brushed his knee, he flinched.
No. Hejerked. Like I’d shocked him.
I pulled back fast, pressing my hand to my chest.
What the fuck was I doing?
I’d never helped someone through a panic attack before. I’d had my own, sure. Ballet training had handed them out like punishments. In the early days after rehab, Gloria had walked me through a few using grounding exercises. Five things you can see. Four you can hear. That kind of thing.
But none of that felt useful here. Not in a room this small. Not with Bodhi this far gone.
I bit down on my lip.
First, I needed to let him know I was here. That he wasn’t alone. That he didn’t have to white-knuckle it by himself.
“Bodhi,” I said again, a little louder this time.
His breathing didn’t slow, but his hands stilled. I latched onto that.
“Bodhi, it’s me,” I said softly. “Iggy.”
He curled in tighter, like the sound of my voice had cracked something open. His breathing was so fast I worried he might pass out. I wanted to touch him, but my first attempt had gone badly.
So I changed tactics. Maybe I had to touch him somewhere else.
I slid my ass onto the floor and straddled his space, legs on either side of him, inching forward until my toes hit the wall behind his back. It was awkward. Uncomfortable. Murder on my hip. And if he kicked, my balls would be in serious trouble.
But I stayed anyway.
Leaning in, I gently wrapped my hands around Bodhi’s wrists, thumbs pressing against his pulse. I remembered reading something about pressure helping anchor people.
He flinched again. But this time, he didn’t pull away, and something in my gut told me he knew it was me.
I whispered his name again and again, my thumb circling the skin of his wrist. His pulse hammered beneath my fingers, wild and relentless, but I didn’t stop. And when he finally lifted his head, I felt it. The smallest shift.
His breathing slowed by a fraction, barely noticeable, but it was enough. His eyes found me without really seeing me. Still, progress was progress.
I gently tugged on his wrists until his hands slipped free from his hair and fell to the floor on either side of him. His dark hair stuck out at odd angles from all the pulling. In any other moment, I would’ve laughed. Teased him. Run my hands through it just to fix it.
But his shoulders were still rising and falling too fast. His chest still struggled for air. His eyes were glassy, distant, locked somewhere far away from me.
“Bodhi.”
I cupped his face, warm palms against his cheeks. “Are you with me?”
Nothing.
I stroked his cheekbones with my thumbs, slow and deliberate, like I was drawing him back into his body.
Then he blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. And I knew he was back.
“Ig . . . gy . . .” he breathed.
I smiled, relief blooming in my chest. “Yeah. It’s me.”
