Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
I groan, scraping both hands over the top of my head as I continue to lie in bed. Now I'm trying to justify what I did, as if that will make it any less wrong. As if feeling him grow beneath me was his true response to the situation and not the insistence that I get off of his lap. I'm a fucking creep. There's no other argument.
I heard him get up over an hour ago. The walker he's using to get around the house isn't exactly quiet. It creaks and groans under his weight. The back legs scrape over the floor.
I can't stay in bed all day. He has therapy later this afternoon, and it's not like I can insist that he go on his own. I know he doesn't want people to witness the struggle getting in and out of the vehicle, so calling him a cab would be an insult to him.
I grab a quick shower, because it's one more way I can put off the inevitable. I don't doubt that he's already called Kincaid to report my unprofessionalism. With any luck, maybe Kincaid will tell me to come back to the clubhouse. Maybe he'll send Ugly here instead.
There's not a likely chance that my male teammates will grind on his lap in the middle of a panic attack. I pile my hair, still wet, high on my head. I don't have the energy to do anything with it after debating every life choice I've made that brought me here today.
Aro’s sitting silently on the couch in the same spot I left him last night after he moved me off his lap. His eyes are closed, his hands resting softly on his lap. He's brave. I'll give him that. He looks to be meditating and if that's the case, he's stronger than me. If I had that type of reaction, I would not turn around and try it again less than twenty-four hours later.
I fight the urge to watch him, knowing how vulnerable a person is in that position. I head into the kitchen to make a light breakfast. Wondering if he's already eaten, I decide to make extras, knowing he's got a healthy appetite. At least he did back at Cerberus.
I keep my ears peeled as I scramble eggs on the stove. I know he's at risk of another panic attack. As a psychologist, I also know that facing that danger is one of many ways to work through it.
I can guess what brought it on yesterday, where his mind wandered as his breathing grew more rhythmic. Post-Traumatic Stress isn't something you can simply wake up one day and decide you're not going to have. No one is immune to it though some are capable of overcoming it. A lot of times, meditation is required. Anxiety attacks are stressful. They're terrifying, but he appears to be facing it head-on.
It's an ode to his strength and determination to overcome the many things he's facing. I know he struggled yesterday with a panic attack and physical therapy the day before wasn't easy for him either. Maybe he feels like this is something that he can control. He's taking back that part of him and that's a good sign of his recovery.
Heavy breathing reaches my ears over the sound of the eggs cooking in the skillet. I don't hesitate to turn the stove off and place the food on to another burner before going into the living room. His cheeks are red like they were yesterday when his panic attack started.
“Deep breaths,” I say, keeping two feet of distance between us. I won't make the same mistake I did yesterday. I won't cross that line. But I also won't make him suffer this alone.
My feelings were hurt a little yesterday, and it took me a long while to realize I had no right to be upset with him for how he reacted to coming out of a panic attack with me sitting on his lap.
His eyes slowly open and I keep my breaths even. “Deep breath in,” I remind him. “Slow breath through your nose.”
He copies my breathing, his eyes locked on my throat. Just when I think he's got a handle on it all, he reaches for me. He isn't satisfied with my hands in his and in the next second, I'm right back on his lap where he didn't want me yesterday.
His eyes move from my throat to my mouth, my rhythmic breathing calming him but at the same time making mine grow more erratic. It feels like anticipation, like expectation. I know I need to look away. I need to manage how I handle this situation.
I know that human touch in the middle of a panic attack can go two ways. It can be grounding for someone, pulling them from the proverbial edge of a cliff or it can also be too much. Is it possible he felt one way yesterday and feels the other way today? It’s an eternity before his breath normalizes.