Something in the center of my chest finally stops screaming.
The way a sound you've been braced against for too long suddenly falls silent.
I lean toward him without meaning to. My shoulder finds the edge of his sleeve.
I have both hands full of fabric now. I'm leaning against Adrian. Holding on to Bash. Pressing toward Elias.
And the only thought I manage to complete is: They came to me.
All three of them. Immediately. Without a word to each other.
They just moved because I needed them.
The heat in my skin starts to ease back slowly. My pulse slows.
Adrian’s hand is still moving at the back of my neck.
I finally open my eyes and look down at the front of his shirt. The fabric is wrinkled where I'd gripped it, my fingerprints practically visible in the creases.
“Sorry,” I say. My voice sounds strange to me. “I didn’t— I couldn’t—“
“Don’t,” Adrian says softly. “Don’t apologize for that.”
I loosen my hands. Adrian doesn’t step back. Bash doesn’t move away. Elias stays at my shoulder, close enough that the cool mineral steadiness of him keeps my omega from surging forward again.
“I’ll get you some water,” Bash says, and he’s gone before I can respond, the bergamot note briefly fading and then returning as he crosses the kitchen and comes back with a glass, which he presses into my hand.
I drink half of it standing there between the three of them.
Nobody says anything for a moment.
The kitchen settles around us. The sauce bubbles softly on the stove. The music keeps playing
After a few moments, Bash rescues the sauce from scorching. Elias's gaze remains fixed on me while Adrian keeps one hand resting lightly at my waist as I finish the water. Both of us pretend he isn't monitoring my breathing.
I look at the plates still sitting on the island.
The two plates I'd been holding.
At some point, I'd set them down.
“I'm okay,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Yeah?” Adrian asks.
“Yeah.” My voice is even enough that I almost believe it. “That was...”
“I know,” he says.
I press the back of my wrist against my cheek. My face is hot from the overwhelming embarrassment of watching my own body do something I had absolutely no control over.
“Does it get better from here?” I ask.
Even as I say it, I already know the answer.
Bash turns from the stove with an expression that is almost sympathetic.
“No,” he says. “But we'll be here to help you through it.”
