He was nervous, and I was sitting there, dinner forgotten, gaping at him like an idiot. “Some of this,” I managed to say.

“Yeah. Yes. Some of this.” His fingers twitched again on the plastic cover, and I still couldn’t get over that it was divided into sections. “I mean, there are so many options that we have. Things aren’t like they were when we first got together. Things are better now for same-sex couples. We don’t even have to look outside the US. I mean, we can, and if that’s the direction you want to go, I’m totally on board with that, but… I just want to start. You know? Somewhere. A conversation. About adoption or surrogates and—okay. I know it’s a lot, and I can tell by the look on your face that—”

“I don’t have a look on my face! And wow. I really didn’t mean to shout that. Holy shit.”

He shook his head fondly. “It’s not—Bear. I want this, and I want you to want this too. I don’t want to force you. Or push it. But I’d like for us to talk about it, you know?”

I could do this.

I could do this.

I probably couldn’t do this, but I sure as hell could wing it.

“I—”

The front door slammed open, causing both of us to jump. We laughed a little at ourselves, and Otter called out, “Ty?”

There was no response.

His brow furrowed a little bit, and all I could think was that if it wasn’t one thing, it was another, because somehow I knew something wasn’t right.

There was a little choked gasp from out in the hallway, something I knew so well. It was the sound of my brother struggling to breathe, to force air into his lungs, even though his throat was closing up and the red claws of panic were tearing into his skin.

I shoved myself away from the table, the wineglass tilting over, dark liquid soaking the tablecloth. I ignored it because it wasn’t important. Not now.

I heard Otter jumping up behind me even as I ran from the kitchen.

Tyson Thompson was slumped against the now-closed door, feet sliding out from underneath him, skin pale, glazed eyes bulging even as he tried to pull the collar of his shirt away from his neck like it was choking him.

I stumbled a little as I reached him, tripping over the damn rug in the hallway. I fell to my knees in front of him as he hit the floor. His skin was cold as I cupped his face, his fingers knocking against my hands as he tried to shove me away.

“Kid? Tyson.”

“I c-can’t b-breathe,” he panted out. “I c-c-can’t breathe, Bear, oh, Bear, I can’t b-b-breathe.”

We’d been here before.

More times than I could count.

More times than someone like him ever deserved.

Panic disorder was a bitch like that.