Page 24 of Wings
I guided her to the couch—beige like everything else, no throw pillows, no blanket. She collapsed more than sat, knees drawn up, making herself small. I settled close but not touching, angling my body to give her space while staying within reach.
"Match my breathing," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "In for four, hold for four, out for four. Watch me."
I exaggerated each breath, making it visible. In through the nose, chest expanding. Hold. Out through the mouth, slow and controlled. She tried to follow, but her rhythm kept breaking, little gasps and stutters destroying the pattern.
"I can't—" She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Everything's falling apart. They're going to arrest me. I'll lose everything. And now Alex—he knows where I live. I can't—"
"You are not going to jail. Not going to happen. And I'll handle Alex. You are safe, you hear me, safe?" The promise came out harder than I intended, edged with the kind of violence I'd tried to leave in the desert. "Now, look at me. Just my breathing. Nothing else matters right now."
She dropped her hands, eyes finding mine. The panic was there, but underneath I saw something else—trust, fragile as spun glass. She tried again, matching my inhale. Failed. Tried again.
On the third round, something shifted. Her breathing hitched, but not from panic. Her eyes went wide and vulnerable, pupils dilating. When she spoke, her voice came out small, young, nothing like the woman who'd fled the parking garage this morning.
"Mister Gabe?" The words were barely a whisper. "I'm scared."
Everything in me stilled.
My entire demeanor shifted without thought. Voice dropping lower but softer, shoulders squaring, presence becoming something solid she could lean against without falling through.
"I've got you, little one." The words came out sure, certain. "Just breathe for me."
Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. This time when she tried to match my breathing, it held. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Her shoulders slowly dropped from around her ears.
"That's it," I murmured. "You're doing so good. Just like that."
She shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough I could feel her warmth. The couch dipped under our combined weight, and her knee brushed mine. Such a small point of contact, but she didn't pull away.
"We'll figure it all out," I promised, though I had no idea how. "Right now, just breathe. Everything else can wait."
She nodded against my shoulder—when had she gotten that close?—and kept breathing. In and out, matching my rhythm like her life depended on it. Maybe it did. Maybe this was what drowning looked like from the inside, and all I could do was breathe with her until the water receded.
The apartment's silence wrapped around us, broken only by our synchronized breathing and the distant sound of traffic four floors below.
And suddenly, for the first time in three years, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.
Chapter 6
Kiara
Iwaswarm.Sowarm.It was strange, unfamiliar.
My eyes cracked open to filtered morning light leaking through the gap in my blackout curtains, turning everything golden-gray and soft.
Memory crashed back like cold water. The panic attack. The decapitated bear. Gabe.
I froze, barely breathing, as my sleep-foggy brain processed what my body already knew. I was tucked against Gabe's side, my head on his shoulder, his arm curved around me like a shield. A blanket covered us both—my grandmother's quilt from the bedroom closet, the one I never used because it smelled like home and made me cry.
He must have gotten it after I'd finally exhausted myself into sleep.
My heart did something complicated in my chest, part panic, part something softer I didn't want to name. I should move. Should put distance between us before he woke and things gotawkward. But his shirt smelled like laundry detergent and motor oil and safety, and I'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up safe.
Carefully, trying not to disturb him, I lifted my head enough to look at his face. Sleep had erased the hard edges, the weight he carried. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even. He looked younger like this. More like the boy who'd helped me tape butterfly wings back together.
My gaze traveled down, and that's when I noticed—his prosthetic was off, propped carefully against the coffee table where he could reach it. The vulnerability of that hit me unexpectedly.
The trash can by the kitchen was empty. No sign of the mutilated bear, the red cotton, Alex's note. He must have dealt with it while I slept, erasing the evidence like he used to clean up Alex's messes. Taking care of things so I didn't have to see them in the morning light.
God, I'd really let him hold me all night. Let him see me shatter into pieces. Called him "Mister Gabe" in that tiny voice I'd sworn I'd never use again.
