I bite my tongue. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
He smooths a heavy hand down my uninjured arm, squeezing as he goes. It’s strangely grounding. I want to tell him to stop, but it would be a lie. The firm pressure is doing wonders to loosen the iron band around my chest.
“I thought you were claustrophobic.”
“I still am,” I gasp. “This bathroom is microscopic.”
He just keeps massaging my arm. A few times, his hand dips lower, brushing over my hip before traveling back up.
I close my eyes and focus on the movement. On the human contact. On what is real and right next to me, not the irrational fear thrumming in my mind.
My heart rate decreases bit by bit. I lean deeper into Timofey’s chest. I let his scent swallow me up.
It happens slowly, the way we fall together. I press my foreh
