Orion turned to look at the labeled shelves, his brows coming together. “How about I hold the box and you fill it with aforementioned items.”
I sighed and set the box on the counter, then slid it toward him. “If it gets you to do actual work…”
“Careful, Bennett.” He grinned. “I could get used to you bossingme around.”
“Oh, really? You want to be treated like the vending machine?”
“Depends,” he said, eyestwinkling.“Will there be spanking? Then, yes.”
“Ugh. You’re impossible.”
Orion held the box, while I filled it with the supplies from Langford’s list. I was acutely conscious of his nearness again, his gaze on me. Worse, I didn’t mind.
“So, Harper Bennett. Tell me your life story.”
And then the lights went out.
A smalltickplunged the room into black, and my chest seized. Instantly, I was ten years old, in the closet, on the floor. Dash—barely a toddler—was huddled against me, his face buried in my side, my arms wrapped around him tight while some drunken monster raged outside…
“Harper?” Orion’s voice was empty of its playful swagger. “Hey. Talk to me.”
I swallowed hard. “I—I’m fine.”
“Like hell.”
I heard the rustle of cardboard as he put the box somewhere, and then his hand was on my arm.
“Come here.”
I took a step closer, my pulse pounding between my ears. The dark was like a huge hand wrapping me in its grip and squeezing.
“I can’t see…I can’t breathe,” I whispered.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” Orion’s hand on my arm slid down to clasp my hand in his. “We’re fine. The lights are on a timer. You’re not in danger, okay? Give me a second…”
I heard another rustle, and then he turned on the flashlight function on his phone. He set his phone face up on the table, close to us. In the sharp white light of the flashlight, his face was a mask of concern, his eyes locked on mine.
“Breathe, Harper. In…and out.”
I nodded rapidly, but my breath was stuck in my throat. “I’m s-sorry. I don’t—I don’t like small spaces.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “Just breathe. And sit down. Here…”
He helped me up onto the counter and then hopped up to sit beside me. I realized I was clutching his hand like a vise.
“Sorry,” I murmured, but didn’t loosen my death grip either.
“Stop saying that. Breathe. In…and out.”
He repeated that several more times while his thumb drew small, steady circles across the back of my hand. I concentrated on his voice, the rhythmic feel of his touch, and the fist in my chest began to unclench.
“Better?”
I swallowed. “Yeah. Better.”
“Good,” he said. Gently. Softly. “Keep breathing. In…and out.”
I did as he said, and he breathed with me. My grip on his hand loosened, but I didn’t let go, and neither did he.
