Her eyes flicker toward me, just for a second, and I take that as progress.
“I’m going to touch your hand,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm and clear. “Is that okay? It helps. I promise.”
She doesn’t respond verbally, but her eyes focus on me for just a moment and she gives the tiniest nod. That’s enough.
I reach out slowly and carefully take her hand in mine.
Her hand is small and delicate, and it’s shaking so badly I can feel the tremors running through her entire arm.
Her skin is clammy and cold, her fingers like ice against my palm.
I wrap my hand around hers, covering it completely, and apply gentle pressure, grounding her, anchoring her.
The difference in size is striking.
My hand engulfs hers, and there’s something about that—about how fragile she feels right now, how different this is from thewoman who calls me a psychopath and throws forks at my head—that makes my chest tighten.
“Good,” I say, not breaking eye contact and keeping my grip firm but gentle. “Now I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Copy me.”
I demonstrate, taking a slow, exaggerated breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Emma tries to copy me, but her breath hitches and she gasps again, her hand clutching at mine tighter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, staying calm even though seeing her like this is fucking with me more than it should. I squeeze her hand back, trying to give her something solid to hold onto. “It’s okay that it’s hard. We’re going to try again. In through your nose”—I breathe in slowly—“and out through your mouth.” I breathe out.
This time she manages it.
Barely.
Her breath is still shaky and too fast, but she’s getting air.
Her hand grips mine like I’m the only thing keeping her from drowning.
“Good,” I say, nodding encouragement. “Again. In through your nose.” I breathe with her, my thumb unconsciously stroking across her knuckles in what I hope is a soothing gesture. “Out through your mouth.”
We do this for several minutes—me breathing slowly and deliberately, Emma trying desperately to match me, our hands still locked together.
Gradually, gradually, her breathing starts to even out.
The blue tinge fades from her lips.
The wild, unfocused look in her eyes clears slightly.
Her hand stops shaking so violently in mine.
“That’s it,” I tell her, keeping my voice gentle. “You’re doing great. Keep breathing with me.”
After what feels like forever but is probably only five or ten minutes, Emma’s breathing is almost normal again.
She’s still pale and trembling, but the immediate crisis has passed.
She takes one more deep, shuddering breath then seems to come back to herself fully.
Her eyes focus on my face, then flicker down to where our hands are still joined, my thumb still moving in those small circles across her knuckles.
Then to where I’m sitting close enough that our knees are almost touching, and I can feel the warmth of her body next to mine.
I watch her process the closeness, the hand holding, the fact that Leo Santoro just spent ten minutes talking her through a panic attack like he actually gives a shit whether she’s okay.