Page 67 of The Betrothal

Seb pulled them both over the threshold properly and secured the door blocking the gusts of bitter cold air from stealing the warmth of the space.

“Ben?” Seb curved an arm around Izzy, drawing her softly towards me, her features written with a blend of concern and discomfort.

I grimaced, resuming scrubbing at my skin.

The sound of crockery on my work surface caused me to pause in my frantic movements. Izzy had placed a plate of turnovers onto the counter, the smell finally reached through my daze.

“Benji?” Seb hadn’t moved any closer, but he watched me.

Normally I appreciated how well attuned he was to my moods, my needs, but right now it irritated me.

I knew, so his knowing made no palpable difference.

“Seb, I know.” I infused a warning into my voice.

“Okay…” he tried to encourage more from me but I didn’t really have the ability to vocalise it. Or perhaps the will to.

I tore the glasses from my hair and threw them down. “I’m having a tough day.”

“Okay. And how do you want to manage it?”

I scowled at him. “Don’t therapise me, Seb.”

“I’m not, I am asking what you need. Because you know what you need.” He rested his palms on the counter leaning towards me, his face expectant.

“I…” I stalled. I should damned well know by now. I’d lived with this for years so I should be capable, surely, of de-escalating.

“Stop that.” Seb rounded the workbench and leaped up to sit on its worn surface, so lithe despite his size.

I scowled at him. He read my thoughts better than I could.

“Either, there is something worrying you, which we can talk through, or you’re over-stimulated and need to reset. Those are two of the fastest ways to de-escalate. How close are we?” His eyes that were always so empathetic were creased in concern.

“We?” I snipped, knowing instantly that my attitude was unfair. I grimaced, but Seb just smiled. “Sorry.”

Izzy shifted and I tracked her movement now.

She wanted to leave. I could tell. This made her uncomfortable.

I made her uncomfortable.

I fucking knew I would.

“Should I leave you to it?” Dirt scuffed under her boots with her retreating shuffling. “You guys could do with space.”

“Not from you, Killer.” Seb didn’t turn to her but the confidence in his voice had her pause and she tilted her head at me for confirmation.

The loose braid she wore over her shoulder had stray strands reaching in every direction, her worried eyes looked a warm brown in the filtered light. She was back in her massive tracksuit which made me smile. But her top wasn’t torn like mine was and I frowned at that, before clocking the slashes over the knees.

Some tension left me as I looked at them.

When no-one else spoke, Seb picked back up the thread. “So, anything we need to discuss?”

I shook my head.

“Are we defaulting to a sensory distraction or more in the vein of reducing input?”

Always so goddamned clinical.