The medication’s kicking in, and I watch as his body finally begins to relax, his breath slowing, the tightness in his face softening. For a moment, I stay there, watching him as if the mere act of breathing is something precious. It’s hard to focus with the way my heart races, that echoing fear clinging to my ribs.
I pull my hand from his hair, fingers lingering for a beat. I should be happy, right? Instead, everything inside me is wound into a knot so tight that I can’t untangle it, no matter how much I try to breathe through it.
I stand on shaky legs and move toward the kitchen. Just when I think I might be able to pull myself together and breathe properly,ithits.
The air around me thickens as the walls press in. My throat tightens and I break out in a cold sweat. My heart thunders in my chest, frantic and uneven. I reach for the counter, my fingers gripping the edge, hoping for some stability. It doesn’t help.
I can’t breathe.
More hysteria surges up my spine. I press my fingers to my mouth to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free. He needs me, and I can’t let myself crumble now. Not when he’s finally starting to heal, and definitely not when he’s still so fragile.
I’ll be okay. I have to be.
My hand shakes as I reach for my phone, eyes scanning the list of names. I need someone to pull me back and tell me it’s all going to be okay. But as I scroll, I realize the truth. I can’t call any of them. Not one. They’d worry. They’d rush over, and then Callan would know. I can’t let that happen.
I push the phone away, and I stagger toward the sink. I splash myself with cold water, but it doesn’t help. I grab the dish towel, rubbing my face as if I can scrub away the emotion that floods me. Slowly, the tension in my chest subsides enough for me to take a deeper breath.
The panic fades, but in its place, doubt settles in. What if I’m not strong enough for this? What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not what he needs? The last time someone depended on me, it ended in disaster.
No. Callan is different. This is different. He’ll be fine, and we’ll be fine.
I close my eyes and draw in another unstable breath, letting the cool granite of the counter press into my palms. The chill is starting to help. Then I hear Callan’s steady breathing, and any traces of panic disappear.
I slide back onto the couch, my eyes flickering toward him. I’m hit with that familiar urge to reach out, to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, just because I can. I stop myself before I can move, hesitation freezing my hand midair. I don’t want to disturb him. Not when he finally looks so peaceful. He needs to rest.
Instead, I settle in, pulling my knees to my chest, my gazefixed on him. I try to breathe with him, to sync up with the slow, consistent beat of his heart. My eyes linger, tracing the curve of his jaw, the lines of his face softened in sleep.
It’s not perfect. Nothing ever is. But as I sit there, watching him, I realize it’s a hell of a lot better than it was just a few days ago. And for now, maybe that’s enough.
A pained groandrags me from my fog of sleep. I blink my eyes open, and the darkness of the room wraps around me, thick and heavy. My thoughts feel slow, and I rub at my eyes, hoping to shake off the remnants of sleep still clinging to me.
Callan. My heart skips painfully as I turn my head. There he is, lying so still, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in discomfort. His breathing is shallow, quick, and I can see the tension in every inch of his body, muscles rigid under the blanket.
Oh god, what time is it? The question barrels through, but the answer doesn’t matter as much as the look on his face. He’s hurting. I can see it clear as day, his brow tight, jaw clenched.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’d only closed my eyes for a minute. Just long enough to blink away the ache behind them. Now it’s obvious…
It’s been longer than a minute. And he’s definitely past due for his meds.
I gently shake his arm. “Cal?”
His eyes flutter open, but the clouded look in them sends a jolt of guilt through me. I hate it. I hate seeing him like this.
“It hurts,” he murmurs, his voice a raw rasp.
“I know, I know,” I whisper back, my heart sinking. I scramble for the lamp switch with the hand not resting on his arm. The soft light flickers on, casting shadows across his paleface, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur, almost to myself, as I finally spot the meds and move to get them. “I’ll get your meds, okay? Just hang on.”
Reluctantly, I let go of his arm, the loss of that contact leaving a hollow throb in its place. I turn quickly and head for the kitchen before I do something reckless like reach for him again.
My hands are shaking, the glass of water too fragile in my grasp as I fill it. The pill bottle rattles in my hands, and I have to take a deep breath to balance myself.
This… All of this just keeps bringing me back to those days with Dillon when everything was so fragile and unsure. If I didn’t move quick enough, if I didn’t doeverythingright, things would break, and I wouldn’t be able to hold the pieces together.
I shove the memories down, locking them away before they can sink their claws in. This isn’t the same. I know that, even if my body doesn’t seem to get the message. The fear still clings, threading through my veins, pressing into my ribs like it’s trying to carve itself into me.
My hands tremble as I press the pills into Callan’s palm and hand him the glass. “Here.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, but it’s a mistake. He’s looking at me like he sees straight through the wall I’m trying to build.
