“Okay,” he says firmly. “Okay. That’s all right. You’re safe. You’re here with me.”
I press my palms into my thighs, grounding myself in pressure, the way my childhood therapist taught me years ago. It barely helps.
My thoughts spiral, overlapping and vicious. Security means eyes. Eyes mean patterns. Patterns mean questions. Questions mean exposure.
Exposure means headlines.
Headlines mean locker rooms.
Locker rooms mean silence turning sharp.
My throat closes.
Rafe cups my face, forcing my focus. “Have you had a panic attack before?”
The question cuts through the fog just enough. “Yes,” I manage. “As a kid and in high school.”
“When was the last time?”
“Senior year,” I whisper. “Recruitment. Pressure. Everyone watching.”
His thumb strokes my cheek. “Since then?”
I shake my head faintly. “No. I worked hard. I learned how to control it. I learned how to—” My breath hitches again. “—how to not lose control.”
“You didn’t fail,” he says immediately. “This is a lot.”
My body doesn’t believe him. My heart is still racing like it’s trying to escape my chest.
“I’m going to get you some tea,” Rafe says gently. “Chamomile. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
The thought of being alone makes my stomach drop.
“Rafe—”
“I’m right here,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leaves the room.
The second he’s gone, the silence swells. My thoughts turn on me immediately.
You’re doing this to him. You’re making his life smaller. You’re dangerous to love.
I fold forward, elbows on my knees, hands gripping my hair. I force my breathing into counts again. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six.
It barely works.
I want to say yes to the security. I need to. I know it’s about keeping him safe. About acknowledging reality instead of hiding from it.
But the cost feels unbearable.
I hear the cabinet open. Glass taps softly against glass. Then the kettle, the mug. When he comes back, he smells faintly like something sharper under the chamomile—like he took a sip for himself before he could come steady me.
Rafe’s eyes lock on mine, his concern deepening instantly. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my posture, my breathing, the way I’m rocking slightly without realizing it. “Hey,” he says softly, kneeling again. “Drink this.”
I take the mug with shaking hands. The warmth helps a little. The smell is grounding.
He watches me like he’s afraid to blink. “I don’t like this,” he admits quietly.
