“Four in,” I said. “Six out.”
“Can’t count right now.”
“I’ll count.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
I lifted one hand, low between us, counting with my fingers. He followed. The first exhale broke halfway. The second held. By the third, the panic in his breathing loosened its grip.
“Shoulders,” I said.
He lowered them.
“Hands.”
His fingers uncurled.
“Five things you see.”
“You.”
“Not me.”
A tired flicker of irritation brought him closer to himself. “Linens. Exit sign. Ugly carpet. Silver cart. Your shoes.”
“Four things you feel.”
“My socks are wrong.”
“Tell me how.”
“The seam’s under my toes. Jacket’s tight. My hands are cold. My ears are ringing.”
“Three sounds.”
He shut his eyes.
“Open.”
He opened them.
“Music. Plates. Someone laughing in the kitchen.”
“Good.”
The word left me low.
His reaction was immediate, a shiver he tried to bury and couldn’t. It went through him and came straight for me.
I should have stepped back.
Instead, my attention caught on the uneven line of his collar. “Your collar’s crooked.”
His breathing changed.
I lifted my hands slowly, giving him room to move away.
He didn’t.
