I can't get enough air, can't slow my racing heart, can't stop the spiral. I stumble toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, vision blurring at the edges. Turn the shower on with shaking hands, water steaming instantly, filling the small space with heat and humidity.
I don't even wait for it to reach the right temperature.
Just step in fully, letting the scalding water hit my skin, and immediately sink to the floor. My knees pull up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, and the sobs tear out of my throat—raw, ugly, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and broken.
Everything hurts.
Everything is too much.
My chest is heaving, each breath a battle I'm losing. The water pounds down on me but I barely feel it. My heart is racing so fast it feels like it might burst through my ribs. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Then suddenly, there's warmth that isn't the water.
Arms around me, solid and real, pulling me back against a chest that's rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.
I register dimly that Nate has stepped into the shower fullyclothed, that he's sitting behind me in the tub, that he's wrapping himself around me like a shield, his body curved protectively over mine as the water pounds down on both of us.
"Breathe with me," he says against my ear, his voice cutting through the panic like a lifeline. "In for four. One, two, three, four."
His chest expands against my back, and I try to match it, gasping.
"Hold for four. One, two, three, four."
His heartbeat against my spine—slow, steady, refusing to match my frantic rhythm.
"Out for four. One, two, three, four."
His breath is warm against my neck, and slowly, impossibly, my breathing starts to follow his lead.
"That's it," he murmurs, one hand splayed across my stomach, the other holding my shoulder. "I've got you. You're okay. I've got you."
I've got you.
Three words that always meant more than nine letters.
Three words that used to be a promise.
Three words I haven't heard in seven years but that still land like coming home.
We stay like that—him wrapped around me, both of us fully in the shower, water streaming over his clothes, his jeans, his t-shirt, soaking through to skin. His chin rests on top of my head, his arms never loosening their hold, and gradually, gradually, the panic recedes.
My breathing evens out. My heart rate slows. The black spots fade from my vision.
I become aware of other things.
The solid warmth of him against my back. His thumb drawing absent circles on my stomach. The rise and fall of his chest that I'm still matching with my own breaths. Every point where our bodies connect burning despite the water.
"Better?" he asks softly.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
He shifts slightly, and I turn in his arms until I'm facing him, our legs tangled on the narrow shower floor, water still pouring down.
Water drips from his hair down his face, follows the line of his jaw, trails down his neck. His dark eyes are steady on mine with an intensity that steals my breath all over again for entirely different reasons.
For a moment, it feels too familiar. Too easy.
Like no time has passed at all. Like we're still those kids who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
