Page 33 of Fat Arranged Mate
"...twelve, Sera. Breathe out for twelve."
The voice penetrates the roaring in my ears—deep, steady, anchored in the present rather than the past. A warm presence crouches beside me, not touching, just there.
"In for four," the voice continues. "Hold for four."
Dylan. It's Dylan.
I force my eyes open, vision blurry with unshed tears. He kneels beside me in the narrow alley, his expression calm but alert, body positioned to shield me from view of the parking lot.
"Just breathe with me," he says simply, demonstrating with exaggerated movements of his chest. "Four in. Four hold. Twelve out."
I try to follow, managing a shuddering inhale that catches painfully in my throat.
"Good," he encourages, voice low and steady. "Again. Four in."
Gradually, my breathing aligns with his rhythm. The vise around my chest loosens incrementally. The world expands beyond the narrow tunnel of panic, colors and sounds returning to normal intensity.
"How did you—" My voice emerges ragged, barely audible.
"Check-in," he answers, understanding the unfinished question. "You didn't respond to my text. Been thirty minutes."
Our safety system. The one I'd initially resisted as paranoid, but had reluctantly agreed to. A text every half hour, response required within fifteen minutes; otherwise, the other would come looking.
"My phone," I manage, glancing at where it fell.
Dylan retrieves it, checking for damage before returning it to me. His movements are efficient but unhurried, giving me time to compose myself.
"Can you stand?" he asks, offering his hand without presumption.
I nod, accepting his support. His palm is warm against mine, callused and strong as he helps me to my feet. The world tilts briefly before stabilizing. He doesn't let go immediately, seeming to sense my continued unsteadiness.
"Truck's around the corner," he says, nodding toward the lot's edge. "Think you can make it that far?"
Another nod. Words remain difficult, trapped behind the receding tide of panic. Dylan keeps his hand at my elbow, not quite touching but ready to support if needed, as we make our way to his borrowed pickup.
Inside the truck's cab, the familiar scent of pine and leather engulfs me—Dylan's scent that has somehow, without my noticing, become associated with safety rather than danger. He starts the engine but doesn't immediately drive, instead turning to study my face with surprising gentleness.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes." The word comes easier now. "Thank you."
I feel bashful for some reason, shy. I have no idea why.
He nods once, accepting without requiring explanation. No demands to know what happened. No judgment for the weakness he witnessed. Just quiet presence and practical assistance.
"Found something," I say as he pulls onto the main road, needing to focus on the mission rather than my breakdown."They’re definitely working with the Guardians. I wasn’t able to get much information, but—”
"Tell me at home," he replies, eyes scanning the road with habitual vigilance. "Rest for now."
The permission to simply exist, to recover without immediate demands, is unexpected from someone I've always perceived as mission-focused to the exclusion of all else. This side of Dylan—patient, observant, almost gentle—doesn't align with the rigid enforcer I thought I knew.
We drive in silence, his attention on the road, mine on the steadying rhythm of my breathing. Occasionally, his gaze shifts to me, checking without asking, before returning to our surroundings. The quiet between us feels different than our usual tense silences—not a battleground but a sanctuary.
At a stoplight, his hand moves briefly to the center console, palm up, an unspoken offer of contact if I need it. I don't take it, but the gesture itself steadies something within me. The light changes, and his hand returns to the wheel without comment.
By the time we reach the cottage, my body has settled from the adrenaline crash, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and a lingering sense of vulnerability. Dylan parks in the driveway, then circles to my side before I can open my own door.
"I can walk," I protest weakly as he helps me down from the high cab.
