The contact shifts again, her other hand coming up, resting lightly against my chest, not pushing, just there, like she’s checking something deeper than the surface.
“Feel that,” she says.
I frown slightly.
“What?”
“Your breathing,” she replies. “It’s all over the place.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” she says, pressing just slightly, enough that I can feel the rhythm under her palm. “You’re still bracing for something that already happened.”
I still.
Because she’s right.
Again.
“Slow it down,” she murmurs.
I don’t argue.
I don’t need to.
I let my breath shift, pulling it deeper, slower, forcing it into something that resembles control instead of reaction.
Her hand stays where it is, tracking it, adjusting with it, like she’s calibrating me without saying that’s what she’s doing.
“That’s better,” she says quietly.
The space between us changes.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
My hand lifts without thinking, settling at her waist, not pulling her in, not yet, just resting there, feeling the warmth through the fabric, the solid presence of her grounding against everything else.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her fingers tighten slightly at the back of my neck in response, the shift small but deliberate.
“See?” she says softly. “You can control something.”
I huff a quiet breath.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” she agrees. “But it’s where you start.”
The distance between us disappears in increments, not rushed, not forced, just…closing. My other hand comes up, brushing along her arm, following the line of muscle and tension there before settling at her side. Her head tilts slightly as she steps closer, her forehead brushing mine, the contact light but steady.
“This isn’t about him right now,” she murmurs.
“It should be.”
“It will be,” she says. “Just not like this.”
