Oh, shit. I know that tone in his voice—the subtle tremor of anxiety that sometimes hits East so hard he can’t function. I would do anything to make it better, but luckily, it doesn’t take much. I scoot to the opposite side of the mattress and pat the bed beside me.

Easton releases a long breath, and the light shrinks again to nothing as he shuts the door behind him. He lies down on his back on top of the covers. “Sorry,” he whispers.

I put my hand on his chest, right on top of his racing heart. “I’m here. It’s fine.”

He places a hand on top of mine. “Thank you.”

Gone are the days of self-deprecation for these spells of anxiety. The first time I witnessed one of his attacks, he was a junior in high school and it was the night before he was supposed to take the SATs. I found him in the corner of our basement, shivering and sweating. It freaked me out to see him so panicked. He couldn’t catch his breath and his skin was so hot that I thought he had a fever. I had no idea what to do, so I just sat down beside him and held his hand. Eventually, he calmed enough to tell me it was an anxiety attack, and not his first. School was always a trigger for him—especially anything that made him feel like he might lose a chance to play football.

After that night, it wasn’t uncommon for him to seek me out during the tough moments. For whatever reason, I’ve always been able to calm him. He told me he was comforted to have me beside him whenever he had to suffer through a full-blown attack.

“Just breathe.” I scoot closer, keeping my hand on his chest under his.

I hear him fighting to control his breathing, and his heartbeat slows incrementally. “Thank you.”

“Try to sleep, East. Everything seems worse in the middle of the night.” I stay close, willing my calm to seep into him until the steady, even beat under my hand lulls me to sleep.

I fade in and out of consciousness, dreaming of our drinking game, of our conversation from earlier, my brain replaying and rewriting the words as his grip on my hand loosens.

And when the words I needed earlier tonight register in my brain, I don’t know if they’re from this Easton or from my dream.

“It wouldn’t have been a pity kiss.”

Easton: Thank you for last night. You are the literal chill to my crazy.