“What is this?”
“This is where we’re going to work on your breathing.”
Bennett stares at me like I’ve suggested we rob a bank. “My breathing.”
“Your breathing.” I close the door behind us. “Sit.”
“Gisele—”
“Sit.”
He sits. On the mat, legs crossed, looking like a sullen teenager who’s been sent to the principal’s office. I settle across from him, close enough that our knees almost touch. The contact is barely there—denim against denim—but electricity crackles. I’ve been touching him professionally for days now. This is different.
“Breathing exercises,” I say, “are one of the most effective ways to interrupt a stress response. When your body is flooding with cortisol and adrenaline, the fastest way to bring yourself back down is to consciously slow your breath.”
“I know what breathing exercises are.”
“Do you do them?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.” I adjust my position, settle my hands on my knees. “We’re going to start simple. Inhale for four counts. Hold for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Repeat.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Most things worth doing feel ridiculous at first.” I meet his eyes. “You sat in the middle of a street because you couldn’t process your emotions. I’m teaching you a tool that might prevent that from happening again. Would you prefer I let you spiral in private?”
His jaw tightens. “Fine.”
“Good. Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because looking at me is distracting you from focusing inward.” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you’d prefer to stare at the wall?”
His eyes stay closed this time, though the tension in his face doesn’t ease.
We run through several cycles. Each repetition loosens something in him. His shoulders drop. His jaw softens.
“Good,” I say. “You’re doing good.”
“It doesn’t feel like anything’s happening.”
“It doesn’t have to feel dramatic to be working.” I lean closer, close enough that I can see the individual lashes resting against his cheeks. “Sometimes healing is boring. Sometimes it’s just sitting in a room breathing when you’d rather be doing literally anything else.”
His eyes open faster than I expected, and the look he gives me is so raw it steals my own breath.
“I’d rather be here,” he says quietly. “With you. Even if it’s boring.”
I freeze. That was not in the script.
The impact of his gaze at this proximity is something I’m not prepared for. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in the brown, the exhaustion he’s been hiding, the way his pupils dilate as he registers how near I am.
I’ve been managing proximity for days—standing between his legs while cutting his hair, close enough to smell his shampoo, close enough to feel his breath. I thought I had it under control.
I was wrong.
“You’re very close,” he says.
