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His eyes close. “It’s…just like this sometimes.” His words are so quiet and low, I scarcely hear them.
I lie back beside him, wrap an arm over his chest. He muscles tremble as he inhales deeply. Does he want me near him? I’m relieved when his arm wraps around my back. Pulled up against his chest, I hear his racing pulse.
“It’s a bit like fight or flight, is it?”
His cheek presses against my hair. I believe he nods, but can’t be certain.
“Do you feel frightened?”
He’s still for a long moment. Then he lifts his shoulders.
“It makes sense,” I murmur. “Given what those drugs do—” the ones he’s withdrawn from— “it’s completely sensible.” I shift so I can hug him more tightly. “Does this help a bit?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
But his breaths are fast and shallow. I shift more, so we’re on our sides, facing one another. His face is somber; his blue eyes are closed. His nostrils flare with every inhalation. I cup my hands around his full lips, trying for a paper bag effect.
Instead, he kisses me between his gulping breaths. His arm loops around me. His hand delves into my hair, pressing our mouths gently together as his tongue strokes mine. Then we’re devouring each other.
When we break away for air and he’s breathing more slowly, I stroke his face, look into his eyes for some clue how he’s feeling.
“Better now.” The words are raspy.
“Good.” I brush my lips over his temple. “Are you hungry?” I lean back so I can see his face. “Perhaps a bit of toast?”
He nods once.
When I return with cinnamon toast, I find he’s shifted onto his side, facing the door. He’s clutching his phone, and I can see his large hands trembling. When his gaze finds mine, his tired eyes look lost again.
“Hi there, Sailor.”
He tries to smile for me, but it’s a twitch of his lips. I stroke his hair, and he pushes up on one arm…then sits fully up, taking his plate. He won’t meet my eyes as I sit on the bed’s edge, eating my own piece.
“Thank you,” he says after a moment.
“I hope it’s decent.”
“Yeah, it’s good.” Now his eyes are on me—watching me with care and all the usual perception. “You okay?”
“Of course.”
“Not too sore?” Now his voice is low and husky.
“I’m deliciously sore.” I can’t help grinning. I expect him to return it. Instead he rubs a hand over his face, back through his hair, and does another sad not-smile that makes my stomach knot up.
“If you need to go, I’m good,” he tells me.
“Oh…I know. I don’t want to, in fact. Is that all right?”
“Yeah.”
I stretch out beside him, pressing my face to his thigh and hugging his legs.
“My Declan.” I squeeze. “I forgot! I meant to make you tea. It’s tea time.”
He gives a hollow laugh—a bit surprised, I think—as I flounce from the room, feeling a bit giddy. Everything will be well. All he needs is someone to be with him. That won’t solve all of his problems, but it should go quite far.
When I return with the valerian/peppermint tea I made the lazy way, using the microwave, I find him crouching beside Baby on the bedroom rug. He’s rubbing her head as his eyes find mine. Such somber eyes. Yet when he stands, I feel him trying to play normal.
