Page 65 of My Fixation

“Jaxon.” Conor’s voice cuts through the chaos again. Closer this time. His hands frame the back of my head and neck, holding me against him. “Stay with me.”

Then Conor is kneeling in front of me. His large hands cup either side of my face. “Give me five things you see.”

I try to take a breath. I know this technique. I’ve used it myself before, in therapy, after nightmares. After panic attacks that left me shaking on bathroom floors or locked in my truck trying not to lose my mind.

I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out except a strangled cry.

“Five things you see, Jaxon.” Conor’s voice is firmer this time, calm and controlled. Leaving no room for my spiraling thoughts. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes. Pulling my focus back to him.

“Your eyes,” I choke out. My breathing stutters again. “The TV… the chair…” I force myself to look around the room. “Coffee table. Lamp.”

“That’s good, A Chroí.” The praise settles somewhere deep in my chest. “Four things you can feel.”

I swallow hard. “My shirt… the couch…” I curl my fingers against the cushions beneath me. “My pants. Your hands.”

“That’s it.” His voice stays low and steady. Like he knows exactly how close I am to falling apart again. “Give me three things you hear.”

I focus. Really focus. Pulling myself away from the memories piece by piece.

“Air conditioner,” I whisper. My breaths are still shaky, but they no longer feel impossible. “Clock. Your breathing.”

Conor nods. His forehead nearly touches mine now. Keeping me here. Keeping me present. By the time he asks me what I can taste, my breaths are no longer coming out in panicked gasps. The room feels real again. And the abyss finally loosens its grip on me.

His kiss against my forehead is the first thing that feels real since the panic attack started. The pressure of it cuts through the lingering fog in my head better than the grounding exercise did. Better than counting breaths. Better than forcing myself to name objects in the room while my mind tried to drag me backward. Conor’s lips linger for a second longer than necessary. My eyes slide shut. Exhaustion crashes into me all at once, leaving me wrung out and shaky.

Conor’s hands remain on me. One cupping the side of my neck. The other rubbing slowly up and down my back. Never demanding more from me than I can give.

“There you are,” he murmurs quietly. The words do something painful to my chest. Because no one has ever sounded relieved to have me back before.

I only vaguely register Conor pulling me to my feet. One arm wraps securely around my waist while the other keeps hold of my hand. Guiding me. Supporting me. My limbs feel heavy, boneless. Like the panic attack drained everything out of me and left nothing behind.

The walk to the bedroom is a blur. Soft lighting. The quiet creak of the floor beneath our feet. The steady warmth of Conor beside me. That’s all I can really process. He helps me into bed with a gentleness that still catches me off guard every time. Pulling the blankets over me. Making sure I’m settled before climbing in beside me.

I barely register the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Barely feel his arm slide around my waist and pull me against his chest. But subconsciously, I move closer. Seeking him out even in my exhausted haze. Sleep drags at me hard and fast. Pulling me under before my mind can spiral again. The last thing I feel before darkness takes me is Conor pressing another kiss against my hair.

And for once, falling asleep doesn’t feel lonely.

Chapter 34

Conor

I count Jaxon’s breaths for what feels like forever. Slow inhales. Uneven exhales. Every now and then his body still jerks slightly in his sleep, like some part of him is trapped back in those memories. I tighten my arms around him every time it happens. Holding him closer against my chest, trying to ground him even unconscious.

Anger settles heavily beneath my ribs. It’s cold and sharp. I’ve never actually helped someone through a panic attack before. Not personally. The closest I’ve come was watching Declan with Xavier after the kidnapping. Watching him pull Xavier back from terror piece by piece. At the time, I understood its mechanics. But understanding something and experiencing it are two very different things.

Seeing Jaxon like that—Shaking. Struggling to breathe. Lost somewhere inside his own head—It did something unpleasant to me. Because I couldn’t fix it immediately. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t tear apart the memories hurting him the way I can eliminate physical threats.

Jaxon needs more help than I can give him on my own. The realization irritates me immediately. Not because I think less of him for it, but because I want to be enough. I want to give him everything he needs before he even has to ask for it. I want to be his safety, stability, and peace. Things the world has apparently denied him his entire life.

My hand slides slowly through his hair. He shifts closer in his sleep. Instinctively seeking me out. Something possessive twists in my chest at the movement.

Mine.

The thought comes easily now. Naturally. I press my lips against the top of his head and stare out into the darkness of the room. Because one thing is becoming painfully clear. I would do absolutely anything to keep this man safe.

The clock on my phone reads a little after six in the morning. Jaxon has been asleep for more than eight hours. I know because I haven’t slept much myself. Not deeply anyway. Every sound he made immediately pulled me awake. Thankfully, he never woke up screaming. But several times throughout the night he mumbled incoherently or whimpered softly in his sleep. Every time it happened, I pulled him closer against my chest, ran my hand through his hair, pressed my lips to his forehead or temple.

Each time his body relaxed almost immediately afterward. Like some part of him recognized me even asleep. The realization settles heavily in my chest. Jaxon is curled tightly against my side now, one arm stretched across my stomach while his face is tucked into my neck.