9. Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Needing an Orgasm
9
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Needing an Orgasm
Bre
“H ey, Bruce. Find the pickle yet?”
“No!” The word snapped out like she was a piranha, and they were fresh meat.
Connor and Liam, infuriating as per usual but additionally so when her hormones were this heightened, accepted their cuss-outs with all the dignity of five-year-olds. Five-year-olds as wide as mountain ranges, which was the exact image they portrayed now, working shoulder to shoulder.
Mountains or not, she was ready to strike them down like skittles if they looked at her the wrong way. She was tired. She was hot. And she’d woken in such an intense state of arousal that she’d needed a long morning stroll, on ankles too willing to inflate like balloons, just to alleviate some of the tension that buzzed beneath her elasticised skin.
Two days on, and nothing had changed. In fact, the last forty-eight hours had been almost identical to each other, except for the absence of Billy’s thigh hard between her legs. That one frenzied moment in the garage was almost as embarrassing as the way she slipped into coma-esque sleep every evening, exhausted from days spent indulging Piers Ryder.
‘Later’ with Billy was proving to be as elusive as a snowflake in a Southern Hemisphere Christmas. The tight line of her lips seemed to grow more solid with each day that the promise of ‘later’ didn’t materialise. They needed to talk. To kiss and make up. To make out! How a man could be so close and yet so far was the greatest paradox of her life.
These last few mornings she’d woken nearly nose-to-nose with her best friend. She’d stare in the dark, willing him to wake, to grumble about something, and get this ball rolling. But no. She’d inevitably have to rise, thanks to an overfilled bladder and churning stomach, and he would stay safely tucked on his side of the very mature and highly effective pillow wall he’d constructed … and which she destroyed to pad around her aching hips and slide between her knees. Pillows had never stopped them from touching before.
Before, however, she hadn’t been a whale, and he wasn’t jaded about their usual plans to screw each other’s brains out.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman needing an orgasm,” she spat at Connor and Liam, whose exploding laughter made her nostrils flare.
“Sorry to hear that, Bruce!” one of them called.
Sorry … Carmichael apologies wouldn’t win any friends today. Her middle finger gave a salute over her shoulder as she barrelled past, hell bent on this morning’s mission.
Graham, handsome in his Carmichael tartan kilt and pressed white shirt, brushed past, chasing his kids into the fields, walkie-talkies amplifying their excited chatter between infrequent static. Thankfully, they didn’t stop to chit-chat, or to get their heads bitten off for simply existing.
“Morning, sis.” Seth eyed her, wary as a man happening upon a snake in the bush. “Who’s shoved a bee into your bonnet so early this fine morning?” His eyes flicked to the neighbouring property, the question Our mother ? on the tip of his tongue.
Bre shook her head. “No one. Nothing.” She didn’t want to talk to her brother about her raging case of whatever the female equivalent of Blue Balls was. Blue ovaries? Whatever the name for this condition, she was suffering. Who knew growing a human could make you so desperately want to practise the art of reproduction?
Knowing better than to interrupt one of Bre’s moods, Seth stood aside, letting her storm past before joining the line of full-time and seasonal workers, and the extended family, as Holly and Sharee read from Bre’s plans, allocating each worker their various assignments for the day.
Dipping his worn baseball cap at the ever-white-linen-clad Sharee DeLuca, Seth bowed slightly as she told him, “You are today’s Greeter!” handing over a clipboard and water bottle from the trestle table.
Connor and Liam narrowed their eyes at Seth as he told the designer, “Have a great day, gorgeous,” before running the few hundred metres towards the open candy-cane-striped gates of the property to take up his place as the Carmichael Christmas Tree Farm’s official welcoming committee.
The Greeter was the first – and last – line of defence in the tradition of the pickle. Nick hadn’t explained the role of the greeter when the Crank Shaft crew had been filming, but everyone knew that if the prized ornament left the farm, Christmas would, officially, be ruined. No pickle meant no presents opened early and no bragging rights, no ridiculous demands that made the family holidays memorable. If the Greeter let the pickle leave the farm … it was all over.
Waving from the gate, Seth threw a kiss across the space to the twins.
“Bruce, don’t say it!”
“What? I wasn’t going to say anything!”
“Yeah right!” Liam scoffed, as Connor chimed in, “Don’t say whatever it is that you’re thinking! Just close your mouth and keep it to yourself for once.”
Breanna feigned ignorance. “Do you mean Sharee and–”
Both twins flung piercing blue glares her way before hopping into a ute and rumbling away down well-worn tracks.
Stepping into the shade, Bre rolled her eyes to Holly and Sharee.
“Men,” they agreed in unison.
“Their words might bruise at times, but at least they don’t bite,” Holly said.
Bre tapped her shoulder where a faint trail of scars circled her skin. “They used to, years ago. Sharp teeth, little buggers.” Winking to Sharee, whose mouth hung open, she added, “It’s quite useful to remind the patrons at The Pope that the twins aren’t all bark. And don’t worry, I got them back.”
Holly explained that her middle sons often worked as security at The Pope, but to her, they were as harmless (and often as annoying) as gnats.
Leaving the women to chat, Bre eyed their long lists of tasks for the day. After yesterday’s interior photos and the dinner shoot, today Sharee and Holly were focusing their festive social media content creation on the tree farm itself, and had a long list of carefully curated shots they wanted to capture, including the Carmichael clan in their kilts.
Piers wasn’t nearly as organised, but, she supposed, Crank Shaft was an entirely different beast, and there was only so much influence Revv allowed over his programming. According to the scrawled schedule Trudy and Jaxon had shoved into her palm last night, Piers wouldn’t be ready to film until 11am, after an hour of hair and makeup and when the sun was bright enough to glimmer perfectly off Edsel’s Christmassy fire-engine-red paintwork. They’d break for lunch at 1pm and then finish filming at 3pm so the fading sunlight didn’t impact the wingback-chairs-in-the-tree-fields interviews Piers demanded.
Never mind that sundown began around 8pm, there were no wingback chairs, and she rather thought Crank Shaft viewers would prefer to see a more relaxed chat in the lovingly restored tray of Edsel, but … whatever. At least Piers had listened when she suggested the bright red of Edsel’s paintwork would contrast nicely against the deep green of the trees for promo shots. In fact, all morning he’d been insisting it was his idea and that it was the only way to film the three-minute episode trailer.
Shoving a whole pig’s worth of bacon into his mouth, Piers’ imagination had grown into a beast that further demanded these shots would be cut with extreme-close ups of Bre’s hands and dissolved with footage of her slowly rubbing a cloth over the cherry panels, fading to Piers’ winking into the rear-view mirror as he adjusted it.
“It’s all very cinematic,” he’d explained, as though she were a child, unable to understand. In truth, she didn’t comprehend how such a popular show successfully operated on a team of one camera man, one sound technician, and a Dani Zucco T-Bird wannabee with an overinflated superiority complex.
Bre really wanted to kick him in the kneecaps, eternally grateful he was staying in the garage rather than the main house with the other guests. Piers seemed like a five-star-minimum hotel kind of guy, but the best accommodation in town was above the tavern, and on the farm at least, he didn’t have to pay for his bed, laundry, or meals.
Born an Aussie, he’d spent so long overseas cultivating what he loved to define as his “CAReer” that his accent was more American than Ocker, and he’d clearly forgotten what Christmas Down Under entailed. Among Breanna’s growing list of frustrations with Revv Ryder was the fact that his plans were ridiculous. He failed to understand that his schedule meant they’d be filming outside, in the hottest part of the day. That, and his penchant for leather jackets, despite the summer sun, would have him melting in seconds. He’d be hot in every sense of the word.
She, on the other hand … Bre looked down at herself, at her Doc Martens, the heavenly stretchy pants Holly insisted she learn to love, and her oversized shirt, and began to wonder if she was ready for her TV debut. Normally, she gave zero considerations to her appearance. Comfort was her singular goal when dressing.
“Things are so different now,” she muttered to her belly. A fluttering reply pressed beneath her skin. “Morning, little shit. Sleep well?” Again last night she’d completely passed out while waiting for Billy, sprawled on top of the sheets like the ungraceful watermelon with limbs that she was.
Waking up to him beside her, his hair falling across his brow, his quiet breaths, the way his large body made the mattress dip, encouraging her to roll into the bare, tattooed chest that rose and fell beside her … it had taken considerable restraint not to brush that hair back, to nuzzle closer and touch him. Everywhere. Anywhere. All at once.
But she didn’t. Instead, while warmth grew down low in her body, the chilling realisation of ‘get-up-now-and-vomit-or-else’ spurred her body into an entirely different course of action. After her now-habitual morning chunder, she dressed quickly and escaped down the stairs for breakfast, helping Holly prepare for the imminent onslaught of hungry male mouths to feed.
“May as well work until eleven,” Bre mumbled as she passed Holly and Sharee, whose discussion had turned to the various photos they ‘needed’ of the kilted clansmen, to get the most hits on their respective social media pages. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and find the pickle. Make them all give me a massage while feeding me grapes and fanning me with golden palm fronds or something.” The idea had merit.
Fifteen minutes later, however, she regretted her decision to search for the ornament while working.
“Have you found it?” Bre shifted on throbbing feet, the sun stinging her face as she rounded a row of trees to where the twins’ dual chainsaws were cutting through arm-thick trunks.
“Ten thousand snails and a corner of one field infested with aphids, but no Christmas Pickle,” Connor sighed. “Assuming that’s what you meant, Bruce.”
“You might not have a special pickle –” Liam grinned, shoving his brother’s shoulder, “– but I do …”
The twins erupted into a familiar series of vulgar gestures and jokes about size, girth and how one should most effectively use it. Having heard variations of this discussion countless times over the years, Bre returned to the trees. Maybe Graham and the children, with their many eyes and variation in heights, would have better luck.
Legs aching, she mentally ticked and crossed things off her to-do lists.
Make a mess of things with Billy? Tick.
Swallow nearly all her pride and apologise? Tick.
Resume naked festivities with best-friend-with -benefits? Ba-bow. Nope. Not able to tick that one off. No ticks, no crosses, no nothing.
Well, not nothing. She couldn’t discount one clothes-on orgasm that he’d encouraged her to take, not from him, but from friction alone.
Take what you need … Use me, honey.
He’d been so accommodating. His remembered words flooded her system with heat, adding more discomfort to her current swollen, overheated condition.
She’d hoped that escapade might have opened the doorway to more starlit recreational fun, but the only thing that had seen any action at night had been Billy’s damned air mattress that first night, then the Great Pillow Wall of China built between them every evening since. Any other time, she would have smashed through that construction with a wrecking ball, but lately, finding the energy to do anything other than making herself comfortable was proving difficult. She’d been so fatigued from her days, in particular:
having Revv’s huge presence in her garage
the epic family dinner Holly put on for the entire assembled clan and guests
playing board games with Graham’s kids before Billy read to them from Le Grinch and helped carry them to their beds
the nervousness of going to his room, with so many baby-blue Carmichael eyes watching her retreat up the stairs …
She went down the list, analysing it, examining each moment to see if there was any tiny moment Billy had given her that look, the ‘come hither’ or ‘I want my face buried in your breasts’ look she’d sometimes caught on his face. That tiny spark of hope didn’t exist. Aside from The Incident in the garage, Billy seemed to have no intention of remaining anything other than platonic. There’d been no reason to battle with her exhaustion once they closed the door to his room each evening.
In the morning, she’d find him beside her, having crawled into bed like a giant cat, without tipping the mattress at all. Her balled up clothes would be neatly folded, her discarded boots suddenly standing side by side at the door. This morning, she’d even woken to a glass of water and crackers beside the bed. He’d wasted a cracker by gluing two googly eyes to the salted upper face. That one thoughtful gesture near made her heart burst, and gave her hope. Luckily, she’d fished the plastic eyeballs from the masticated mess in her mouth before swallowing.
Awake before dawn – again – and gripped with the now-familiar morning sickness that she never quite managed to get rid of, even with Billy’s crackers, she snuck out of the room. With nowhere else to go and ponder, Bre made her way into the fields searching for the pickle, because what else could she do to alleviate her frustrations about Man Number One while Man Number Two took his sweet time getting camera-ready?
At least Piers wanted and needed her, in some way, though it made her skin crawl every time he opened his mouth. That hadn’t always been her immediate reaction to the TV star, but this Christmas was all about change.
With gritted teeth she’d tried to ignore the item currently top of her mental agenda – unleash righteous justice upon Piers’ perfectly sculpted nose job. But Constable Keneally had made it very clear, many years ago, and reiterated often, that continued callouts to the Carmichael or Henderson properties would result in swift arrests, and she didn’t want to be locked in handcuffs – unless William Carmichael was the man circling them around her wrists.
Billy had always been a great friend, and she didn’t want to ruin that or push him into a situation he wasn’t comfortable with, just because she wanted more. She held out all year for this, and he humoured her. That’s all it was. That was The Plan – They were Friends with Festive Benefits.
Plan B had been … a misstep. Okay, if she was being honest, Plan B had been a series of hot, sweaty, clothing-optional missteps that had occurred with increasing frequency over the past year. Still, each encounter had: a) been communicated, with b) clear expectations set – orgasms and nothing more, and c) nothing – ever – would compromise their friendship.
She didn’t want Billy to expect anything more than that previously arranged Big O moment. He didn’t need to look after her needs and those of her baby, too. And he probably didn’t even want her in that same way, not if there was a dependant relationship at play. They’d always been so independent, then she’d been greedy. She knew it was the hormones, that it was unfair to ask him to change their plans yet again, but she couldn’t help it. Billy made her that way, and damned if she wanted him more than ever. So why did she feel so desperately alone?
The Carmichaels had saved her from loneliness and sorrow. They had taken her from the clutches of Elanor, offering her safety and comfort. The excited squirm in her stomach registered that someone was listening. Absently, she stroked her stomach. “We’ll be okay, little shit.”
The increasing fluttering deep within her both amazed Bre and freaked her out. Not once had she imagined what having a foetus inside you might feel like, but if she had, she wouldn’t have imagined these gentle, intermittent butterfly motions.
Every time she felt movement inside, she couldn’t help but think of those gory extraterrestrial scenes in the ‘Alien’ movies. After a year of demanding she wasn’t “too girly” and could handle it, the boys had finally let her in on their horror and sci-fi movie sessions, so Bre had seen more alien spawn slice through human abdomens than she cared to admit.
“Doc said you’re definitely human, though,” she murmured. “Even though you look exactly like a comma in a snowstorm. Actually, I’d welcome a blizzard right about now.” Wiping at her damp forehead, she began to doubt the sanity of her plan to work until Piers was ready to film.
The summer sun blazed tirelessly down, adding more freckles to her fair skin. “More constellations for Billy to discover, eventually … hopefully.”
The tree rustled as she quickly checked it for the pickle, head spinning as she stood up too fast, too soon. “I’d love to win this year,” she confided to the pines, wiping at her face once more. “I need a foot rub … badly! Bring down the swelling. I can’t believe I’ve had to loosen the laces on my Docs. And I need Billy to barge through the pillow wall like a fucking pillaging Viking!”
In fact, one of her favourite sights in the entire world was Billy Carmichael descending on her, eyes blazing and mouth quirked, his large body hovering above hers. The calm after the storm was a beautiful sight, too. Billy splayed out across his wide bed, sheets rumpled and their noses pressed together as her hair cocooning them in their own little world where nothing else and no one else existed.
“It’s part of the magic of the season,” she swore to the nearest tree, rustling through its greenery with quick fingers, coming up empty. “Where did they stash that damned pickle this year?” If one of Graham’s kids found the ornament and made her do something ridiculous, she was abandoning Christmas at the farm in favour of working double shifts at the pub through to the new year.
“Next year …” She trailed off, already trying to make plans in an unknown future where she was a ‘we’ – just her and her baby a big question mark on next year’s calendar. She wiped again at her forehead, her breaths shallow as her mind wandered, stretching between past and present like a tinsel-wrapped bungee cord.
The thought occurred to her that she still needed to have a decent conversation with Billy. He deserved her words. Not another apology – hell, one of those rarities was enough! But still, she should say … something. A lot of somethings, if she was being honest. He needed answers to:
who her baby’s father was
why she refused to discuss it
why she wanted their friendship to stay the same.
This new list grew longer with every step.
Perhaps they should discuss the future, and how – if – Billy might remain a part of her life, once she became a single mother. She was under no illusions that this was one of the most difficult choices she’d ever made, but she refused to trap a good man like William Carmichael in a bad situation. He needed to have all the facts, and to make up his own mind. They needed to discuss options, though if history told her anything, she’d be the one doing most of the talking while he nodded occasionally, offering the occasional grunt.
If she tried conversation soon, everything she’d been trying to deal with would tumble out, jumbled, confused, and angry. Not at Billy, but for Piers and his behaviour. She’d invited Crank Shaft here, and yes, Revv Ryder was a celebrity, but that didn’t give him a licence to carry on like an ignorant arse, particularly around the dinner table, and the children.
The kids looked up to their uncles. Billy in particular, seemed to have infinite patience with Graham’s messy offspring. Yet even Billy was bristling more and more as the Crank Shaft host flirted and insulted his way around the family. Revv’s crew, rolling their eyes and muttering frequent apologies under their breaths, gave the impression that yes, unfortunately, this was how the celebrity always acted.
“It’s just a few more days,” she assured herself. Billy didn’t need anyone to stand up for him. He was a big boy – in more ways than one – who could take care of himself. “If he’s okay with Piers slinging around old-fashioned ableist language like ‘cripple,’ that’s his business.” She shuddered, fury and disgust mingling into a hard knot, mirroring her curled fists.
She needed to hit something. Over and over, until her anger died down. Usually, she’d drive straight for Fit But, her friend Adam’s gym. He’d hold the big black punch bag hanging from the ceiling, encouraging “more, harder, faster, Bre!” while she belted it until her arms ached, her knuckles bled, and her legs gave out, completely spent. Adam would pat her shoulder, pick her up, and bandage her wounds, proud as punch. He’d whisper encouraging things and turn her pain into battle scars, healed with his delight in her efforts.
Boys were good at that – praising aggressive release. Jillian would probably break her wrist if she even thought about throwing a punch. Her closest friend was delicate, and would find healthier ways to work through her emotions.
Breanna had always found it harder to befriend girls than boys. ‘Those With Penises,’ as Bre had called them through school, didn’t mind her crass loud mouth and generally dishevelled facade, yet these same endearing qualities were frowned upon by her vagina-wielding cohort. Bre had tried to make female friends many times over the years, but inevitably she would upset the girls with her too-blunt opinions, insulting one girl or another. Then they would band together, excluding her – all except Jillian Maitland.
Jillian was a soft ‘girlie girl’ who almost exclusively wore floral prints. She was a kind-hearted romantic, and Bre was pretty sure that when she sang, forest animals and nearby birds would probably flock to her. Jillian left the singing to her own sister, however, who had long ago flown the coop and moved to Sydney.
Bre thought of her smashed phone, mentally adding it to her shopping list. She really needed a new one, and to contact Jillian, who had a knack for seeing the potential in people. She would offer Bre a silver lining.
Maybe she should be more like Jillian, Breanna thought absently, bending again to search a new tree for the pickle ornament. Maybe she could become the woman her mother wanted her to be? The thought was brief, before the urge to hit something manifested even stronger than before.
Punching pine trees, however, didn’t have quite the same effect as flogging the bag at Adam’s gym. Here on the farm, Bre could only lose herself in the hard, physical work that a busy business like this required, turning her negativity into productivity.
“Even if I had a hone right now,” she told one tree, “Jillian’s grieving right now. She’s locked herself away in that huge house with her moody jerk of a cat. Poor Jill …” The toe of her boot dug deep in the grass as she continued talking to herself. “She doesn’t need my drama on top of her own issues right now. But what else can I do?” If there was some magical solution to the problems of Piers, the baby, Billy – problems that she herself had created – she needed to find it.
“I am going to find the pickle,” she told the butterflies in her belly. “Then I’ll unwrap my present like a queen on a throne! And as the Pickle Queen of Christmas, I’ll make all kinds of outrageous demands from my subjects, as per the rules of the game. Demands like every time Piers says ‘crippled’, or ‘impaired’, or ‘disfigured’, the nearest Carmichael can punch him in the dick.” Hell, they’d gladly oblige her.
The tension had been at brawling point last night until Piers wisely slunk off to bed, nursing his wounded pride. Billy’s half English and half Scottish grandmother, of all people, had been the one to give him a solid scolding. Normally quiet as a church mouse, her explosive condemnation was full of anger and disappointment, a combination only seasoned parents could dish out so effectively.
“But right now …” While hunting for the ornament, she would find the most beautiful tree for the Carmichael’s home, drag it into the house, and decorate it however Holly and Sharee instructed, for their ‘trending’ or ‘viral’ media and marketing goals. She had until 11am after all. Plenty of time to finish a few tasks.
“Piers is such a jerk,” she told the nearby pine, “but I’m so glad I put Holly in contact with Sharee, who is a genuine ray of fucking sunshine.”
Everything about this Christmas was her doing – even this unplanned pregnancy. She could only blame herself, really.
Her shaking hand wiped absently at yet more sweat. “I need a tree.” Somehow, that would make things better. Remind everyone she wasn’t the fragile porcelain doll they’d begun to inadvertently treat her as. “No longer ‘one of the boys’ when the baby in your womb is a swift reminder that you have lady parts down there!”
The trees rustled gently around her, and with a swift mental pivot, she decided to practise the spiel about the Carmichael Christmas Tree Farm she would present on Crank Shaft .
“The Carmichael’s property is approximately sixteen acres, quartered into smaller farms of four thousand trees each,” she told one tree, inspecting its limbs for a glittering green, camouflaged ornament. “The radiata pines, planted in rows and fields, take four years to grow, with one quarter of the farm cut and replanted each year to cycle the growth. The trees are regularly pruned and of various heights, depending on which farm and field you’re standing in.”
Taking a shallow breath, Bre pushed on, reciting, searching for the pickle, and for the perfect tree.
She knew how to select a strong, healthy pine that she could manage to take to the house. Still, as her breathing became more shallow and her feet began to throb, Bre wondered how much of an impediment the baby might be for this task.
The creature within her squirmed and she stopped for a moment, gently resting her hand on the fabric that stretched the face of Grannie May, a local bakery icon, wide across her midsection. She’d won the shirt years ago and it had always been too big for her slight frame.
Now, the old baker’s nose seemed to be the size of Bre’s entire right boob, and it hugged too tight, as though she’d eaten all of the delicious pastries the bakehouse had to offer.
Without her phone and planner, a new list began in her mind:
Buy new clothes.
Thank Holly for these seriously amazing stretchy yoga pants.
Wash said seriously amazing stretchy yoga pants.
Have gherkins and ice-cream for lunch.
Lure Billy into the barn and flip his kilt up … if he lets me.
But no, there was no time for that.
At eleven, take the perfectly preened Piers Ryder and his crew to the garage once more.
Film a few scenes there.
Drive Edsel to prearranged spot. Film some more.
Lug wingbacks to field, arrange the set, then more filming – Q&A as Piers requested.
After 3pm – Help Holly with the internal decorations for her own shoot with Sharee.
Sweep the Big Barn for the famous Carmichael Christmas Eve Party.
Organise the barn decorations for party.
Send the open invite to the Moonshine Gazette.
Put flyers up around town for the event.
Visit my parents?
Buy presents for all the Carmichaels … and probably the Hendersons, too.
Buy presents for guests – Piers, Jaxon, Trudy, and Sharee.
‘Later’ … Find time to talk to Billy – properly.
A sharp pain stabbed through her chest.
Billy deserved so much better than Piers, and better than her, too. Some friend she was turning out to be. She’d added a sweet celebrity interior designer and a motor-mouthed TV show host AND a growing foetus into the already busy mix of a Christmas Tree farm during the festive season. It wasn’t fair to the Carmichael family, and Billy–
The drum in her chest pounded, hot air, so thickly pine scented she could taste it, refusing to enter her lungs. Doubling over, world spinning, feet unsteady, she crashed to her knees.
No, No, No, not again!
As she dug her trembling hands into the dirt, sweat beads trailed down her cheeks. Hot and cold all at once, she forced herself to focus on the solid ground beneath her hands and knees, the small flutter of her growing baby, and the rustling of the trees as the wind played with their evergreen branches … to no avail.
Gasping, Bre squeezed damp eyes shut, gulping what should have been air – but wasn’t. Adrenaline flooded her system as the panic, burning as the summer sun, set her body aflame.
The edges of the world softened with her unsteady vision, the heat fading rapidly as a cold wave rolled through her body.
No.
Stop.
Her body wouldn’t listen. No matter how much she fought, her racing heart refused to slow.
“Bruce?” Dust flew around her as a large body slid in beside hers. “Bruce!”
Vaguely, she became aware of gravity, holding her tight. A large body curled over hers, gravity heavy but comforting, a human blanket, hazy but familiar.
“Breathe,” a voice commanded, its edges rough from worry. “Just breathe.”