“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Come here.”
I tried to pull away. “Lorenzo, let go, please.”
“No.”
He tugged me gently, and I stumbled back toward him. My legs gave out, and I collapsed against his chest. He caught me easily, lowering us both to the floor. Even with the comfort of the heat radiating from his chest, I continued to struggle, pushing at his shoulders, and trying to get free.
“I said I’m fine?—”
“You’re not fine.” His arms wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides. Not painfully. Just firmly. “You’re having a panic attack, and you’re trying to run from it. That’s not going to work.”
“Let me go,” I sobbed, the tears finally breaking free. “Please. I don’t want you to see me like this?—”
Lorenzo pulled out his phone. I saw him fumbling with it.
“Too late.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “I’m already seeing you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I kept fighting. Weak, useless thrashing against his chest. But he held on, steady as stone, absorbing every hit until I had nothing left and my arms went limp, followed by sobs that came in ugly, heaving waves.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let it out.”
I cried into him until my throat was raw. He stayed silent, just holding me, one hand tracing slow circles on my back, the other cradling my head. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear. I focused on that: the rhythm, the warmth of his body.
When my breathing still failed to slow, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His thumb found my chin, tilting my face up.
“Look at me.”
I did. His eyes were dark and intense, but there was no anger there. Only a fierce tenderness that made my chest ache.
“Breathe with me,” he said. “In… out…”
I tried. My breath hitched, but I followed him. Slowly, painfully, breath by breath.
“What do you need?” he asked. “What helps?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just wanted to get to my room. I wanted to be alone.”
“Being alone makes it worse.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Hold on.”
He was up and back in seconds. I heard the ice tray crack, heard him curse under his breath when a cube slipped. Then he was beside me again, holding a piece of ice between his fingers.
“Tell me if it’s too cold,” he said, sliding under my shoulders, pulling me up so I was leaning against his chest before pressing the ice to my throat. I recoiled, then released a shaky sigh as the chill pierced the haze. He moved it gently along my jaw and collarbone. Each touch drew me further back into myself.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He kept going until the ice melted, leaving only water and a lingering chill. Then he set the last piece aside and pulled me into his lap. I curled into him, head tucked under his chin, body still trembling.
“How did you know?” I whispered. “To use the ice.”
He was quiet for a long moment. His fingers combed through my hair, gentle and slow.
“My mom,” he said finally. “She used to get panic attacks. When I was a kid. I’d find her on the floor. Same as you.” He swallowed. “I learned that the ice brings you back. Grounds you in your body.”
We continued to breathed together. His hand found mine, lacing our fingers together, squeezing every time I exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
