Fucking barf.
What was I supposed to do with that?
I usually just nodded. It was easier than correcting them—to let them feel like they got it right, and not have to explain how wrong they were.
There was a version of me that knew how to answer questions correctly, how to keep my voice even, and how to hold eye contact long enough that no one looked twice.
I’d practiced it long enough that it felt automatic now—automatic enough that people mistook it forreal.
There were days I could almost forget it was there.
And then there were days like this one, where it sat relentless beneath my skin, waiting for a crack.
Abel.
His name moved through me before I could stop it, which frankly, pissed me off. I’d spentyearslearning how to redirect that kind of reaction—how to file it down into something that wouldn't bleed through in public.
It didn’t work.
Obviously.
Letting things go would mean letting Abel go, too, and I didn’t really think my body would survive that kind of absence twice.
That was why I’d chosen Wexley.
Not because of the prestige, or the opportunities, but because I thought if I got close enough to the kind of people who studied things like this—loss, violence, the aftermath of it—then maybe I would find something that made sense.
Wrong.
All I’d found were ways to explain it.
Assholes like Jackson thought that just because I could talk about it, because I could stand in a hallway and hold a conversation, I was fine.
Fuck you, Jackson Randolph.
I wasn’tfine. I was just good at hiding where it hurt.
Shit.
I recognized it immediately—the awful, too-tight feeling, like my body had shrunk a size without warning.
I could label it, diagram it, probably write a paper on it if you gave me ten minutes and a laptop.
It didn’t help.
It sure as hell didn’t stop my vision from going soft at the edges or my chest from locking up like it forgot how breathing worked. My hand came up without thinking, pressing into my stomach, fingers digging in like I could calm the nausea.
Nope.
“Breathe, Rabbit.”
I was still stuck in it when he reached for my glasses.
I barely registered the movement—just the brief, precise adjustment at the bridge, his fingers steady as he pushed them back into place.
His palm was warm as it slid across my cheek, cupping it fully this time, thumb settling across my cheekbone while his fingers curved back, threading into the hair at my temple.
My head tipped into it before I could stop it.
