Chapter 12 - Damian #2
My hand stays open, letting him wrap himself around it like it’s a lifeline. His thumb digs into my scar, his breath catching ragged in his throat. He doesn’t stop muttering—if anything, his words come faster, frantic.
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t—Cap—I had four posters, four—different years, different jerseys—you don’t understand, you don’t—I was obsessed, I was wrecked, I was so fucking gone for you—”
I squeeze his hand. Just once.
He sucks in a sharp breath, chest stuttering, words breaking off for half a second. Then he keeps going, softer now, like he’s only talking to me.
The plane steadies again. The hum evens out. And Mercer’s grip stays tight, my name tangled into every desperate syllable he doesn’t even realize he’s spilling.
And I let him.
Because panic or not, filth or not—every word is mine now.
Thirty thousand feet.
The storm is behind us, the cabin hum steady. The boys are half-dozing, half-bickering low under their breath, the buzz of cheap earbuds leaking from Cole’s seat somewhere up ahead. The world has gone strangely quiet after the chaos of the past two days.
But not Mercer.
He hasn’t stopped since we took off.
The kid has muttered himself raw—confessions, memories, filth he doesn’t even realize he’s spilling. Posters, tapes, fight reels, nights spent jerking off to the idea of me like I was a god he could worship in secret. It should be ridiculous. It should make me laugh.
It doesn’t.
It makes my blood burn.
His hand is still tight in mine, pulse racing so hard I can feel it beat through his palm.
He doesn’t even notice he hasn’t let go.
He doesn’t notice how much he’s trembling.
He just keeps talking. A breathless, broken ramble, words curling like smoke out of his mouth, choking him more than the air at altitude ever could.
I let him go until I can hear the strain tearing his voice apart. Then—enough.
My other hand comes up. I grip his jaw, turn his face to me in one smooth motion. My thumb presses firm against his mouth, silencing him.
His lips part under it, breath catching.
“You’re okay,” I say.
And just like that—he shuts up.
His chest stutters once, twice. Then his shoulders drop.
His lungs drag in air like he’s been underwater and I just hauled him up.
His grip on my hand stays tight, but his breathing evens.
Slow. Controlled. His mouth stays open against my thumb, lips brushing my skin with every inhale like I’ve forced him into rhythm.
For the first time since we boarded, he isn’t spiraling. He isn’t choking. He isn’t rambling himself to death.
He’s just—quiet.
Good.
I let my thumb trace one last line across his lower lip before I pull it away. My gaze holds his, burning, making sure he sees it—hears it—believes it.
“You’re okay, pup.”
His throat works. His eyes flutter.
“Yes, sir.”
Finally, he leans back into the seat, like all that air I dragged into him needs to settle. His chest rises slow, uneven, the breath of a man still learning how not to drown. My hand stays in his. Not loose, not light—firm. Present. He doesn’t let go, so I don’t either.
“I promised I’d tell you,” Mercer says suddenly. “About my panic attack.”
I hum. Low, steady. The kind of sound that doesn’t push but leaves no room to back out either.
He swallows. His eyes fix on the dark curve of the window, where the clouds glow faint against the moonlight.
“I was twelve. My brother was nineteen. He was driving. Just us in the car. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about—probably something stupid.
But we were laughing, too, and then…then it was headlights.
Metal. The kind of sound you feel more than you hear.
Like the world just—” his hand twitches hard in mine, “—snapped.”
My jaw tightens.
“I walked away. Busted ribs, some stitches, but alive.” His throat works, lips pressing tight, eyes glassy in the half-dark. “He didn’t. Neck broke on impact. Instant.”
The silence around us isn’t silence anymore. It’s pressure. A weight bearing down on both of us.
Mercer drags in another breath, sharp and shaky. “So now, every time it feels like I’m about to die—like that plane was going down yesterday—my head just…goes back there. Doesn’t matter if it’s sharks in the ocean or steel on a highway, it’s the same. I can’t stop it. I spiral. Every fucking time.”
His voice cracks on the last word, thin and vicious, and he tips his head back hard against the seat like he wants to bash it through the wall. “Pathetic, right? Big bad rookie center, scared shitless of turbulence. Not even scared. Losing my fucking mind over it.”
I don’t say anything. Not yet.
Because this isn’t pathetic.
It’s the scar he’s been carrying since he was twelve, buried under the grin and the chirps and the mouth that never quits. A wound that never healed, just festered until it became part of him.
And he handed it to me.
He doesn’t look at me. Not when his throat works. Not when his grip shakes in mine. Not when he whispers so low I almost don’t hear it.
“Now you know, Captain.”
“You’re not pathetic,” I say, even, calm, steel through every syllable.
“You’re human. You’ve been carrying that wreck since you were twelve, Mercer.
You think it doesn’t leave a mark? Of course it does.
You spiral because you survived. That’s not weakness.
That’s what makes you dangerous—because you survived when you weren’t supposed to. ”
His chest jerks like the words land deeper than he expected.
“And now,” I add, thumb pressing firm against the back of his hand, “we know how to pull you out of it.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
I let the corner of my mouth curve. Not a smile—sharper than that.
“Filth, pup. My voice in your ear. You panicked yesterday until I gave you something else to choke on. So now we know. If you spiral again, I’ll drag you back with filth.
With orders. With whatever the hell it takes to make you breathe for me. ”
For a second, he just stares at me, stunned. Then it breaks out of him—half laugh, half moan. He drops his forehead against the seat in front of him, shoulders shaking.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps, laughter cracked and helpless. “I never—I mean, I never in a million years imagined Damian Kade’s dirty fucking mouth would be what cures my panic attacks.”
My thumb rubs across his knuckles again. His laughter stutters, turns breathless, softer. He leans sideways, shoulder brushing mine, curls falling forward like he’s trying to hide. But I can feel it—the way the panic’s gone. Burned out. Replaced by the reckless fire that always takes its place.
“Guess I’m fucked, huh?” he mutters.
“You’ve been fucked since day one, Mercer,” I answer.
His breath hitches again. But this time it’s not panic.
The flight attendant pauses at our row, smile too bright, voice pitched above the drone of the engines. “Anything to drink?”
“Two whiskeys,” I say before Mercer can open his mouth.
His head whips toward me, eyes wide. The attendant doesn’t blink—just nods, scribbles, disappears up the aisle. A few minutes later, she’s back, balancing two squat glasses, amber sloshing dark inside. The burn is familiar, grounding.
I pass one to him.
He stares at it like it’s a live grenade. “Captain—”
“Drink.”
For a second, I think he’ll argue. His mouth opens and he looks every inch the cocky brat he pretends to be. But then he swallows, lifts the glass with both hands like it might bite, and tips it back.
The effect is instant. His nose wrinkles, his whole face contorts, and then—
“Christ—” He coughs once, twice, shoulders jerking, his throat working like he just swallowed fire. “What the actual—how do you drink this shit? It tastes like—I don’t know—burnt trees and regret.”
I smirk around my own glass as the burn slides hot and clean down my throat. “Drink it anyway.”
He glares at me through watery eyes, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to his forehead. “Sadist,” he mutters, but he tips the rest back, grimacing the whole way down.
When he lowers the empty glass, his breathing is ragged, his throat red from the burn. His lips part like he’s about to start running his mouth again. I cut him off before he can.
“Go to sleep, pup.”
His head jerks back a fraction. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half moan. “You think I can sleep after you just poisoned me?”
“Sleep.”
For a beat, he just stares at me, lashes fluttering, throat working around the fire I made him swallow. His grip loosens on the empty glass, and his body leans sideways, weight tilting until his curls brush my shoulder.
“Bossy bastard,” he mumbles, eyes already sliding shut.
My hand finds his hair, grounding, anchoring him against me. “Good boy.”
He’s out within minutes.