“Rowan,” I plead. “Please, make it stop. It hurts.”
“What hurts, baby? Tell me, and I’ll fix it,” he promises, and I lift a hand and find myself yanking roughly at the silky black curls on his head.
They are the same—these curls are the same as the ones that took flight above me as he fell to his death.
I turn to the left and vomit again, right there on the floor. Rowan does not back away; in my dreams, he is not disgusted by me.
“My chest,” I pant once I can speak again, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “My chest hurts so badly.”
“What are these? What did you take?” Rowan demands, and I see one of the pills held between his fingers.
“Alprazolam. My meds,” I cry, trying to grab them. “I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to see. Even in my dreams, I…”
“Your dreams?” he asks, and he grabs my wrists to keep me from trying to rapidly grab the scattered pills.
“Make it stop, Rowan. This ache won’t go away. I was dying, and Aaron was dying, and he lookedjust like you.”
Rowan’s eyes grow wide, and it seems that even in my own subconscious, I can offend and surprise him. He looks terrified, concerned, and maybe a bit relieved—but that must be wrong.
“Come here, little angel,” he coos, masking his own emotions as he attempts to grab me from the floor.
“No!” I shout, shoving his hands away. “I need to wake up. I-I have to wake up. I can’t fucking breathe!”
“You’re panicking, Elijah,” Rowan says calmly, his cool hands taking hold of my face as he forces me to face him.
My eyes clench shut; I am unable to see the fear or the disgust that must be shown in those green eyes of his. It’ll crush me.
Yet I am incredibly happy that he is here. Even if it is not real.
“Breathe. In for four seconds, hold for two, then out for eight. Come on,” he prompts, and one hand leaves my face to place firmly over my heart. “Start now. In for four. Good job, very good. Hold it… now out for eight.”
I follow his instructions despite myself, his deep timbre guiding my every movement as I fall under his spell.
“Again, Elijah.”
“I’m dying,” I whisper, and my heart only begins to calm when I feel the brush of his lips over my cheek.
“You’re not dying, I promise you. One more time. Breathe in,” he commands softly.
Rowan taps his fingers against my chest in time for each second he counts aloud, and while my cries subside, I do not fight him as he scoops me up and carries me into my bedroom.
I don’t really register the walk. Suddenly my shoes are missing, and I’m sitting in Rowan’s lap as he rocks me gently.
My tears soak into his shoulder as they slowly dissipate, and each stuttered breath that leaves me is stolen with each inhale he takes.
“Sweet,” I find myself muttering. “Chrysanthemums.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Is it calming you down?”
“Mhm.” It truly is. The smell of him is breaking down every ounce of my panic one breath at a time.
And as I feel his heartbeat through his long-sleeve shirt, I become far too aware that he just might actually be here. Whether it’s his existence or my medicine working so quickly, I’m coming down from my panic attack at a startling pace.
“How…” I sit up against him, finding those cold green eyes watching me. “How did you get in here? Why are you here?”
Rowan’s brow furrows in confusion, his head cocking slightly. “I—you called me crying. You begged me to come. And your front door was cracked open.”
What the fuck? I have absolutely zero memory of calling him, although the door being cracked makes sense with how out of it I was when I stumbled home.
