Page 37 of Darkest Kiss

A sheepskin rug is spread on the floor, so soft that I want to lie down on it. On the nightstand is a small wooden box and a pad of paper.

I know that box. I have a version of it at home, except mine is a chipped ceramic dish. I write the fear down, put it in the box, and close the lid. It's a stupid trick a therapist taught me a decade ago, and it works, and I've never told a single living soul that I do it.

"How??" I start. I look at him, unable to finish. I need this room with its careful copycats explained.

"Lie down." He says it gently. "We can talk about the room later. Right now, you lie down, I lie down next to you, and we breathe. That's it."

He’s right. My breathing is getting labored. I lie down. He settles the knitted throw over me. It’s weighted and plush, comforting to my overwrought system.

Rian stretches out beside me on top of the covers. He’s so careful, leaving space, one big hand resting flat on the blanket between us. If I weren’t wheezing right now, I’d hug him.

"You're safe," he says, his voice soothing. "Nothing can get to you in here. No one gets near you without going through me, first, and nothing has ever gotten through me." A pause. “Can you tell me five things you see?”

“Are you serious? You– know– the– drills?” I manage to choke out. I turn my head and look at him, my eyes bulging.

He looks at the ceiling, not challenging me. “Five things. Come on.”

I take a calming breath. “The, uh, the bookshelf.”

“What else do you see?”

My forehead breaks into a sweat. Shit.

“Uh… the lamp. The blue walls. The, uh…” I pluck at the blanket. “The blanket. The clouds on the, uh, ceiling.”

"Good,” Rian praises. “Close your eyes, Noemi."

I let my eyes sink closed.

"Four things you can feel?" he prompts.

He knows the whole thing. The grounding routine, five senses' worth of evidence that you're still attached to your body.

"The blanket," I say. My voice shakes. "It's heavy."

"Good. Three more."

"The mattress behind me." Breathe. I touch his hand. "Your hand. It's warm. And the bed. It’s softer than mine." The belt around my chest loosens a notch.

He doesn't move his hand. "Now three things you can hear."

We work through it. Hearing. In here, I can’t hear much but the beating of my heart, his voice, and the white noise machine.

Smell. The whole room smells of lilac, except for him. His scent is faintly of cedar, and soap, and his own warm skin. It’s dreamy, or perhaps that’s the dreamlike come down. Because somewhere in the midst of naming scents, my breathing evens out. I open my eyes and Rian is right there, his fingers wrapped in a strand of my hair.

When I no longer feel like I’m falling apart, I stay where I am, wrung out and floating in that warm post-panic exhaustion where everything feels survivable.

"I hate that I’m like this," I say to the ceiling. "The panic disorder? I want that on the record. People act like it's quirky. It's not quirky. It's my own brain deciding I'm dying in the middle of a Tuesday."

Rian is quiet for a second. Then he says, "I like it."

I turn my head and stare at him. "That's a deranged thing to say to a woman who just had a panic attack in your spare room."

"Probably." He shrugs like he’s more comfortable in this weird calm coffin of a room than anywhere else. "I used to sleep in here. It made me feel closer to you. And your panic disorder? It makes you seem more real. That's selfish, I know. But there it is."

I huff. "More real? Yeah, right."

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before saying, "I've got something like that myself. Not the same. But something up here that isn't standard issue."