Page 56 of Make Me Mean It

He shoves at me again, frantic and uncoordinated while every breath gets shorter, catching against the next before he’s managed to finish the last one. I keep my hand cupped firmly behind his head, taking the impact every time he tries to pull away and slam it back again, because I have no fucking clue what’s happening to him, but I know I’m not letting him crack his skull against that door.

“Connor, fucking look at me.”

His eyes jerk towards mine, slipping away once before coming back and finally sticking.

His hands are still fisted against my chest, but he stops shoving long enough for me to bring my free hand up and cup his cheek, keeping the other firmly behind his head.

“Enough,” I repeat.

Connor stares back at me, chest still heaving, but at least he’s seeing me now.

“Get-get off me,” Connor stutters, clawing at my hand.

His nails rake down my skin before his fingers lock around my wrist, squeezing, grinding the bones, but I don’t let go.

“Come on, Reid. Snap out of it,” I grit out against the pain.

Connor surges forward, nearly taking me with him. A curse tears out of me as I catch my footing and use the momentum to press him back against the door, getting my body between him and everything else before he can start throwing his head around again.

I crowd in close, and Connor’s forehead drops against my shoulder, his body giving way. His breath punches against my chest in short, broken bursts, and I move my hands down to his hips, holding him there.

He’s fucking shaking.

“Breathe for me, princess,” I murmur close to his ear.

Connor sucks in a breath, gets halfway through it and loses it before trying again. Every broken inhale catches between us, his chest moving too quickly against mine until I find myself slowing my own breathing, making each breath deeper, steadier, hoping he’ll follow.

His palm flattens against the centre of my chest, his fingers trembling.

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

The reassurance is barely recognisable through the strain in his voice, and when he pushes at me there’s nothing behind it. Just his trembling palm against my chest and a pathetic amount of pressure that wouldn’t move me if I weighed half as much.

I look down at his hand, then back at him. His face has lost its colour, and I can feel the tremor running through him where I’m holding him.

Fine, my fucking ass.

Everything in me wants to tell him exactly that. Worse, I want to ignore the hand on my chest and keep him right fucking here until he can breathe properly again.

I bite down on the end of my tongue.

“Alright,” I say instead, strained.

It takes more effort than it should, but I loosen my hands and step back.

Connor’s eyes lift to mine, his lips parting before he looks away again, grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt, and yanking it back into place where it’s ridden up.

He smooths both hands down the front, flattening over the same creases that aren’t there anymore, and I watch his fingers keep going anyway.

I run my teeth over my lower lip, fighting the urge to reach for him again because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

Connor pissed off, I know. I can deal with the insults, the shoving, the looks that suggest breathing in his general direction is enough to ruin his entire fucking day. I know how to push back against that version of him. Usually enjoy it.

But he isn’t giving me any of that now.

He won’t even fucking look at me.

And I’ve got absolutely no idea what to do with him.