“You went through this alone?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You were suffering like this, and they told you to man up?”
“I didn’t have anyone else,” I said. “I lost you. I lost wrestling. I had to put it back together by myself.”
Cal closed his eyes, pulling me closer. “God, Silas. I am so sorry. I hate them for that.”
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. “What do I do? Tell me what to do. How do I help? Is this the same as what happened when we got called up?”
“You remember that?” I asked. I had almost forgotten about it entirely. I’d had a panic attack in the parking lot the day we found out we were heading to the main roster. Back then, I just blamed it on my shitty childhood; now, I knew it was way more complex. And it was far worse than it was in my early twenties.
“Kind of. They’re worse now than they were then, but they don’t happen as frequently. You can’t stop it,” I said. “But… you can be there. Just hold me. Remind me where I am. Remind me I’m safe.”
“I can do that,” Cal vowed. “I’ll be your anchor.”
He turned off the water. He helped me stand. He stripped out of his own soaking wet clothes, got the towels, and dried me off, as gently as he could, kissing my scars. He led me to the bed and held me until I fell into a fitful, exhausted sleep.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of rain and the heavy weight of an arm draped over my waist.
I blinked, the room coming into focus. I was heavy, drained, like I had run a marathon, but the panic was gone. The static was gone.
I shifted. Cal stirred instantly, tightening his grip.
“You okay?” his voice was rough with sleep, thick with worry.
I turned to face him. He looked wrecked, dark circles under his eyes, his hair messy. I was almost certain he had stayed up watching me.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I feel… empty. But okay.”
Cal let out a long breath, resting his forehead against mine. “You scared me, Si.”
“I know,” I said, kissing his nose. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled back a little, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. He studied me for a long moment, making sure the storm had truly passed. Then, a small, crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“So,” Cal murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “About those texts from last night.”
I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. “Oh god. Ignore them. That was the adrenaline talking.”
“Was it?” Cal teased, running his hand down my spine, resting it heavily on my ass. “Because you were pretty specific. Something about… not wanting to be on top? Wanting me to use you?”
I peeked one eye open. “Well, look at the logistics, Cal. Have you seen the size difference? Do I look like I’m built to do the heavy lifting?”
Cal snorted, a genuine laugh that shook the bed.
“Besides,” I added, rolling onto my back and looking up at him, “I do all the highflying work in the ring. I carry the match. When I come to bed? I want to just lay there and let you handle it.”
Cal laughed harder, shaking his head. “Did Lena teach you what a ‘pillow princess’ is?”
“Absolutely,” I deadpanned. “And that’s the role I’m claiming in this relationship. My cardio is reserved for Pay Per Views.”
Cal’s laughter faded into a warm, affectionate smile. He leaned over me, boxing me in with his arms.
“I can handle that,” he whispered. “I like having you under me. I like knowing I’m the one making you feel good.”
“Then make me feel good,” I whispered, reaching up to tangle my fingers in his hair. “I need it. I need to feel you. Ground me.”
The playfulness vanished. Cal kissed me, deep and slow. It wasn’t frantic like the texts suggested. It was heavy. It was affirming.
He moved over me, his weight settling between my legs, pressing me into the mattress. It was exactly what I needed, the pressure, the presence, the undeniable reality of him.
