I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I have spent years answering to everybody else’s wants. My father’s. Evan’s. The company’s. The clients’. I know what they want. I don’t know what I want.
Except… I want to breathe.
I want to stop feeling I’m about to be scolded every time my phone buzzes.
I want to wake up and not immediately run a mental checklist of all the ways I’m about to fail publicly.
I want…
My vision blurs around the edges. My fingers go tingly on the railing. My chest tightens, that awful, familiar vise clamping down. Panic has learned this route in my body too well lately—it hits the on-ramp with frightening efficiency.
“No,” I whisper. “No, not again. Not now.”
My thoughts start to spiral anyway, spinning out into worst-case scenarios, a too-fast car hitting ice.
You’re going to ruin everything. You’re already in the way. They’re being nice because that’s who they are, not because you deserve it. You’re going to hurt Dallas. You’re going to be a terrible influence on his daughter. You’re going to…
“Faith.”
The sound of my name is low and close and decidedly not inside my own head.
I flinch.
Warmth wraps around me from behind. Solid and sure. Strong arms slide around my middle, one across my ribs, the other anchoring low at my waist. A chest presses against my back, solid as the porch itself. Heat seeps through my jacket, burning away some of the cold.
“It’s okay,” Dallas murmurs, right by my ear. “You’re okay. Breathe.”
For half a second, my brain panics louder.
Being held is not neutral, not from him. It’s not a casual hug from an event coordinator after a successful gala or a stiff pat on the shoulder from my father after a “job well done.” It’s… everything. It’s the past and the present and every version of me that ever thought his arms were the safest place on earth, all stacked on top of each other.
My shoulders sag back into his chest, seeking his warmth like a magnet. My fingers, white-knuckled on the railing, loosen a fraction.
“Can’t…” I manage. “Can’t get it to stop.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve got you. Just listen to my breathing, okay?”
I try.
He takes slow, even breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. I feel each expansion against my back, each exhale brushing the side of my neck. My own breaths stumble, awkward and too fast, but after a few rounds, some of them start to sync up.
In. Out. In. Out.
The snow keeps falling, hushed and relentless. The highway hums softly beyond the tree line, distant—it’s decided to give me space.
“There you go,” he murmurs when my inhale doesn’t snag halfway. “That’s it.”
“What are you doing out here?” I ask after a minute.
“Not letting you freeze to death,” he says. “Mom would kill me.”
“Pretty sure your mom could take Death in a fistfight,” I say weakly.
“Probably,” he agrees. “But I don’t feel like testing the theory tonight.”
