Would it be so bad to open up about my struggles with anxiety though? The only person who knows my past is Jesse and I had no choice in telling him, he was there through it all. I decide to keep my response simple before my brain spirals further into a mess of overthinking.

“Just a bad day, it happens sometimes,” I sigh. “I must have passed out during a panic attack.”

Kissing me on the head, he doesn’t push the issue. I can’t help but feel as though he isn’t convinced by my answer. “Next time you feel one coming on, you call me.”

I shake my head against his bare chest, the last thing I need is someone keeping tabs on me. With that thought Tanner grabs my chin and lifts it so I meet his piercing blue eyes. “It wasn’t an offer, Kinsley.”

I allow my eyes to trail over his left peck, taking in a tattoo I haven’t seen before; wild flowering Baby’s Breath climbs across his heart; it’s beautiful. There is nothing gentle about his touch in this moment though; his eyes grow dark and a look crosses his face which I’ve never witnessed before. Despite that, as I stare up at him, a sense of comfort washes over me. I feel safe. Considering safety and comfort aren’t things I often feel, it should be something to cling to, right? So why do I feel the urge to run, to run as far away from here as possible?

Because as soon as you find comfort in him, he will leave. Don’t be that silly little girl who everyone abandons, Kinsley. Run away, before you get left behind again.

I take a deep breath, desperately trying to rid the little voice in my head. His touch brings me back into the moment, his knuckles catching the tears I didn’t realise I had let fall.

“Don’t cry, I’m here.”

Tanner

I wish I knew what she was thinking. What was running through her mind as the tears silently fell down her cheeks. Taking her hands in mine I pull her up so she is straddling my lap. Her hair falls across her face and before she can fix it I tuck the long dark strands behind her ear, giving me a clear view of her eyes. Eyes that I could drown myself in, they are more amber than hazel, almost the colour of the whisky I pulled down from the shelf last night. The colour begins to deepen along with her breathing, her eyes almost golden now.

She blinks a few times before parting her lips to speak. “Help me forget,” she whispers. I want to ask her what she needs to forget, to be able to understand what makes her tick. But when an addict is offered a hit, he takes it.