Chapter 15 #2
When we reached the middle, Natalie turned, her posture relaxed. “We’ll stage everything right here,” she said. “Cameras will be here shortly.”
The railing came up to my ribs.
That was the first thing my body noticed.
Not the view. Not the height. Not the water far, far below. Just the fact that the metal barrier separating me from open air felt suddenly, terrifyingly insufficient.
I took one more step.
And then—without warning, without logic—the world dropped out from under me.
I glanced over the side.
Just a fraction of a second. Barely a look.
The harbor sprawled beneath us in impossible scale, the water glinting deceptively calm, boats reduced to toys, the city pulled thin and distant. The height didn’t just register—it attacked. My stomach lurched violently, my vision tunneling as if my body had decided we were already falling.
Too high.
Too open.
Too much space between me and the ground.
My breath hitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then refused to come back properly.
“Oh—” I whispered, though no sound really came out. My chest tightened like an invisible fist had wrapped around my lungs and started squeezing. My heart slammed so hard it hurt, each beat echoing in my ears, drowning out the sounds of traffic and voices and wind.
I tried to inhale.
My body said no.
The edges of my vision went dark, pinpricked with light. My hands tingled, fingers going numb as if they no longer belonged to me. The railing felt unreal under my palm—slick, distant, like I was touching it through water.
I was fourteen years old again.
Standing somewhere high.
Watching something go wrong.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t—
“Sophie.”
Wyatt’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline.
I turned toward the sound without thinking, my body seeking it on instinct alone. His hands were suddenly everywhere I needed them—firm on my arms, then my back, grounding me in something solid and real and here.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against mine, blocking the view entirely. “Look at me. Don’t look anywhere else. Just me.”
I tried.
God, I tried.
But my chest seized again, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts that barely counted as oxygen. My heart felt like it was trying to escape my ribs.
“I—” My voice cracked uselessly. “I can’t—Wyatt, I can’t—”
“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No disbelief. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re safe. You’re not falling. I’ve got you.”
His hands slid around me fully then, pulling me flush against his chest, my face buried in the solid plane of him—warm, steady, immovable. The scent of soap and clean cotton and Wyatt filled my lungs, the only thing my body would accept.
I clutched his shirt, fingers fisting hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. I needed the pressure. The proof.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his mouth close to my hair. “Not deep. Just slow. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’ll set the pace.”
He inhaled deliberately.
I followed, ragged and uneven.
He exhaled.
I tried again.
My body shook violently, adrenaline flooding my system like I’d just survived something catastrophic—even though nothing had actually happened. My knees threatened to give out, the delayed tremor of fear ripping through me now that the initial shock had landed.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, humiliation burning hot through the panic. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t think it would be this bad—”
“Stop,” he said gently but firmly. “You don’t apologize for this. Ever.”
Someone said my name nearby—Natalie, I thought—but the sound barely registered. The world had narrowed to Wyatt’s arms, his chest rising and falling against mine, his voice anchoring me when my own thoughts turned feral.
Wyatt lifted his head just enough to look past me.
“This interview will have to wait,” he said calmly, the kind of calm that didn’t invite argument. “She’s not okay.”
There was no irritation in his voice. No apology. Just fact.
Natalie responded immediately, her tone sharp with concern. “Of course. Absolutely.”
I felt movement around us—people stepping back, space clearing—but I didn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t. The moment I did, I was terrified the bridge would swallow me again.
“I need to get her off the bridge,” Wyatt continued, already shifting his stance. “Now.”
“Do whatever you need,” Natalie said.
Wyatt didn’t hesitate.
One moment I was barely upright, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
The next, I was weightless.
He scooped me up without ceremony, one arm under my knees, the other firm across my back, lifting me easily against his chest like this was instinct, like my safety mattered more than decorum or witnesses or explanations.
I buried my face against his neck immediately, eyes squeezed shut, breath still coming too fast but finally, finally coming. His hand cradled the back of my head, holding me there, shielding me from the world.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and constant. “You’re okay. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
I believed him.
It wasn’t rational.
It wasn’t thought-out.
It was bone-deep certainty.
He carried me away from the railing, his steps steady and deliberate, his body creating a cocoon that blocked out sky and water and height and memory. I felt the vibration of his voice against my cheek as he kept talking.
“Stay with me, Soph. You’re doing good. Your body’s just catching up. Let it.”
My hands loosened slightly, fingers still clutching fabric but no longer clawing. The sharpest edge of panic dulled, replaced by shaky exhaustion that made my limbs feel heavy and boneless.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, softer this time.
“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb through my hair.
When he finally set me down—far from the bridge, my feet on solid ground—I sagged into him instead of standing on my own. He let me. No rush. No demand that I pull myself together.
Beth and Natasha hovered nearby now, faces pale, eyes wide with concern, but they didn’t crowd. Natalie had followed, too. She stood back with the media coordinator, already waving people away, decisive and protective.
Wyatt crouched slightly in front of me, keeping his hands on my arms so I didn’t feel unmoored. “You with me?”
I nodded weakly. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said. “We’re done for today.”
And just like that—without debate, without negotiation—he made it true.
The interview could wait.
The bridge could wait.
The city could wait.
The only thing that mattered was that I was safe.
And for the first time since Jonesy—since the day fear rewired my body in ways I’d never fully understood—I let someone carry me out of it.
Literally.