I blink up at him, at a loss for words. Is this . . . kindness? From the cranky Capricorn?

He peers down at me. “Are you claustrophobic? If I need to, I can probably shoulder it open.”

Shit. Now there’s no chance of holding back tears. I was not prepared to be treated gently. Not by this six-foot-lots-of-inches prickly bespectacled pear. Not when I was hurting and I needed it most.

A squeak slips out. Another squeak. Then a sob that I stifle just in time, clapping a hand over my mouth.

“Oh no,” he whispers, as if to himself. He rips off his mask from the top of his hair and tosses it aside. “Just . . . please . . . d-don’t cry.”

Sobs wrack my chest. I hold a hand over my mouth, but it’s a waterfall now. The little makeup that I wear is a drip painting down my face. My nose is running. I am the portrait of emotional disaster.

“I c-can’t stop.”

“All right.” He looks at me with so much concern, it makes me feel even worse. I cry harder. “What—” He swallows nervously. “What will help?”

A hug. A hard squeeze. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t ask him to hold me. So I wrap my arms around myself and tuck my chin, hiding the worst of my tears.

Suddenly he’s closer, the heat of his body pouring over me. “Can I hold you—that is . . . Do you need to be . . . held?”

I stare at the ground. Self-conscious. Determined to handle this myself. But I’m shaking with the need for the relief that pressure gives me, the blissful calm that washes over me with a hard, squeezing hug. Reluctantly, I nod.

Without a moment’s pause, Jamie wraps me in his arms, tight to his chest, like he understands exactly what I need. He doesn’t rub my back. His grip isn’t half-assed. The insistent buzzing of my skin starts to ebb. Already I can breathe a little easier, smooshed against him, in a vise grip, my ear over his heart tuned to its drumming beat.

He looks calm and unfazed, but that thundering lub-dub of his heart says he’s feeling far from it. It makes me wonder, if Jamie is that good at appearing fine when he’s actually freaking out, what else is he hiding beneath that pristine surface?

Well, it was pristine. Now it’s a mess, thanks to me.

Pulling back slightly, I dab my eyes and nose, then paw uselessly at his shirt, stained with my mascara, snot, and tears. “Sorry about your shirt,” I whisper, suddenly realizing how close he’s still holding me, how everything in us lines up a little too well.

Jamie seems to have noticed the same thing. His breathing’s changed. So has mine. Faster. Shallow. “What?” he asks, sounding dazed.