Page 86 of Before We Were

Instead, I push the door open to find her pacing, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding her pieces together. The sight of her like this—vulnerable and scared—hits me like a physical blow. The room feels charged with her anxiety, the air thick with it.

"Nora," I start, my voice coming out soft.

She's lost in her head, trapped in whatever nightmare is playing behind those green eyes. Her shoulders shake with each ragged breath, and it kills me to see her trying to handle this alone. I step closer, careful to give her space. She attempts to brush it off, claiming exhaustion from a long day, but the lie sits heavy between us. Someone's hurt her—the thought ignites something primal and protective in my chest—and I'm determined to find out who.

Right now though, what she needs isn't my rage. She needs the comfort we've always found in each other, the same safety we shared as kids.

"Can I hold you for a minute?" Sixty seconds to show her she's not alone, that she can break apart in my arms and I'll keep her safe while she does.

She collapses against me, fitting perfectly against my chest like she always has, like she was meant to be there. Her body trembles, and I feel her heart racing against mine.

"Hey, hey, you're panicking, Nor." Her eyes are vacant, lost in some private terror. It reminds me of that night on the beach, the same raw fear etched across her features.

"If you don't slow down, you're gonna pass out. Focus on me." I run my fingers through her hair, the silky strands familiar against my skin. The gesture seems to ground her, pulling her back from whatever edge she's teetering on.

"Feel that? You're here with me." I guide her breathing, keeping my voice steady. "In for four, hold, now out for eight. Slow and easy."

Her breath steadies gradually, like waves calming after a storm.

"Nate?" Her voice is barely there, fragile as spun glass.

"I'm right here," I assure her, the words a promise I intend to keep.

"You're okay." Confusion clouds her features, as if she's trying to piece together what just happened.

Inside, I'm seething, wanting to tear apart whoever caused this, but I keep my voice gentle. "You're okay now." The contrast between my calm exterior and the inferno of protective rage burning inside me is almost painful.

"How'd you know how to help?" she asks, her voice stronger now.

"Google.” I half-smirk, trying to inject some lightness into the heavy moment.

She narrows her eyes, seeing through my deflection. "Nate, be serious."

I sigh, not ready to unpack my own demons, not when hers are still so raw. "Does it happen often?" I ask instead. "The panic attacks?"

Her hesitation speaks volumes—I can almost see the internal debate playing out behind her eyes: trust or retreat. But she nods, a silent admission that cuts deep. Exhaustion is written in every line of her body.

"Do you need anything?" I ask, stepping back to give her space.

"I think I just need a nap... maybe a shower," she whispers, her voice still carrying echoes of her panic.

I plant myself on her bed while she goes to the bathroom. Something's off—and I know her too well to miss it. The way she's biting her lip, how her eyes bounce around the room like they're trying to escape my gaze. I've got a PhD in reading Lenora Wells, and right now, every nerve is screaming something's wrong.

She comes back from the bathroom, stops cold when she sees me still here. Like she can't believe I’d stay.

"You don't have to stay," she says, her voice this weird mix of surprise and something else. Resignation? Hope? "I'm okay now."

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her. It's not a promise. It's a fact. Gravity doesn't ask permission, and neither do I.

I tap the bed. "Lay down."

She hesitates—classic Nora. Always overthinking, always calculating the risk. But she comes, curling up on her side, facing me. Her eyes are these heavy, exhausted things, like she's carrying worlds I can't see.

I watch her breathe. In, out. In, out. Counting like it's the only thing keeping her together. Time becomes this weird, liquid thing. Just her breath. Just us.

She inches closer. Her hand—fuck—her hand brushes mine, and something inside me breaks and reforms all at once.

I shift, pull her into me. She melts against my chest like she was carved to fit exactly here. It's dangerous. We're a minefield, her and me. One wrong move and we'll detonate everything we've barely held together.

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