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The officer with the keys scoffed. “This ain’t the Hilton. You think you can pick your room?”
The little bit of reprieve I felt rising inside me shriveled.
Arsen’s sneakers shuffled over the concrete as he sidled close to the man.
“You better watch yourself,” the cop warned.
“Look at him,” Arsen insisted, keeping his voice low and even. “He’s obviously two seconds away from a massive panic attack. So you have a choice. You can let me in that cell to calm him down, or you can call an ambulance when he starts freaking out.”
The urge to deny it was right there, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Instead, my face flamed with shame as the two officers shared a glance between them.
“Whatever,” the one with the keys muttered and pushed open the door, indicating for Arsen to go.
He paused long enough to have the cuffs removed and then joined me inside. I stared at him as the door shut and the locks turned.
“Enjoy your stay,” a voice echoed down the hallway as they left us there alone.
He said nothing, but the heaviness of his unflinching stare was demanding. I couldn’t even relish the silence because that look on his face was so disturbing.
A flush crept up the back of my neck, slithering around and up to heat my cheeks. I went on autopilot, delving into the front pocket of my jeans for what was always there. When my fingers came up empty, I lost the battle of avoiding his eyes.
“They took my AirPods,” I explained as if that were somehow a good enough reason to punch a cop. As if I owed him a reason at all.
“They made me empty my pockets too.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but that answer wasn’t it. But then again, I hadn’t expected him at all.
“They were going to let you go.”
“I’m not going until you do.”
“You punched a cop.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
My lips curled up before I could stop them, the blast of happiness so foreign among the landscape of desolate panic that it was like a spotlight on everything I was trying to ignore.
I sucked in a breath, but it was more gasp, over-breathing to the point I could practically feel my lungs filling with carbon dioxide. It was supposed to be tasteless, but it wasn’t. I always knew when my body wasn’t expelling it fast enough. It was a sour tang that started in my throat and climbed up the back of my tongue. Sort of like an army invading my taste buds.
“Hey,” his rough voice demanded, much closer than it was before. Calloused fingers grasped the back of my head, pushing it forward until our foreheads pressed together. “Breathe,” he commanded, but I was past listening.
I wheezed while trying to keep my sour-coated tongue from touching the roof of my mouth.
One of his legs slid between mine, my thighs automatically squeezing around it. The hand not fisted in my hair wrapped around my back and pulled me in until our chests were flush.
“Match my breathing, princess,” he said, his voice a warm murmur.
Through watery eyes, I stared down where our chests touched, watching his rise and fall easily, the rhythm of his breath much more controlled than mine. The hand pressing against the small of my back flexed, then pulled me closer, my body obeying even as my mind still stuttered.
“There you go,” he hummed. “Good boy.”
The praise lit me up inside, and I hurried to drag in another deep breath.
“Another,” he cajoled, inhaling deeply so I could mimic the action. Our breath mingled on exhale, and the tightness in my lungs eased as pressure was expelled.
“I’m so proud of you.” That simple praise wrapped around me like a blanket. “Keep breathing.”
I squished my hand between our chests so my palm could absorb his steady heartbeat, the constant thrum making my lashes flutter closed.
