Chapter 33
LIKE STARING INTO THE SUN.
BILLIE
The kitchen smells incredible. Whatever Darcy’s doing with that feta sauce has no business smelling this good, and I tell him as much while I steal a piece of asparagus from the tray. It took us a moment to cool off from our kiss, but then his stomach rumbled so loudly, we both burst out laughing.
“Hey. Those are for the grill.” He points the spoon he’s using to make the sauce at me.
“Hm. Quality control.” I hop onto the counter, swinging my legs as I watch him work. He’s calm in the kitchen. Methodical. It reminds me of how he is with numbers. Everything measured, everything in its place. It’s the opposite of how I function, and it’s annoyingly attractive.
“So,” I start, popping another asparagus spear into my mouth before he can stop me, “are we feeling confident about tonight’s meal, or should I have the bread and cheese on standby?”
I’m teasing. Obviously, I’m teasing. The grilled cheese incident has become one of my favorite memories of us.
When he stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a pot, like it had personally offended him, while I buttered bread and pretended the smoke alarm hadn’t gone off?
Hot. Also, it was the first time things felt so easy between us that I forgot this was temporary.
It was so… normal. The kind of normal I’ve always craved but never quite trusted to last.
But the joke doesn’t land the way I expect it to.
His hands stop moving. Not slowly, not a natural pause between tasks. They just… stop. The spoon hovers over the bowl, and his knuckles go white around it.
“Darcy?”
Nothing.
“Peter?” I try again.
His chest rises sharply, and when it falls, it shudders on the way down. The color drains from his face so fast it’s like watching someone pull a plug.
“Hey.” I slide off the counter, my bare feet hitting the cool floor. “Peter, what’s—”
“I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. His voice is thin and stretched, like a wire about to snap. His breathing has gone shallow and fast in a way that makes my own chest tighten. The spoon clatters into the bowl, and he grips the edge of the counter with both hands.
I’ve never seen him like this. In all the weeks I’ve known this man—his genuine smile, his stupid jokes, how easily he makes everyone around him feel like the most important person in the room—I have never once seen him look like he’s drowning on dry land.
But I recognize it.
Not the exact shape of it. I don’t know what his version feels like.
But I know what it’s like when your body turns against you.
When the thing that’s supposed to keep you alive—your brain, your breath, your heartbeat—suddenly decides to betray you.
I know what it’s like to be sitting in your truck in a parking lot, gripping the steering wheel because your chest hurts so badly you’re convinced something is physically wrong.
I know what it’s like to cancel on people you love because the weight of existing that day is too heavy to carry into someone else’s space.
I know the particular loneliness of falling apart in a way nobody around you can see.
My version comes with a calendar. Two weeks of feeling like myself—mostly capable, sharp, someone who can run a crew and swing a hammer and hold her own—and then the slow, familiar slide into a body and brain I barely recognize.
The PMDD turns the volume up on everything my ADHD already makes loud.
The anxiety becomes a roar. The sadness becomes a bottomless pit.
And the worst part isn’t the feeling itself—it’s the knowing.
Knowing it’s coming. Knowing it’ll pass.
And still not being able to stop it from swallowing me whole every single time.
So no, I don’t know what Peter’s feeling like right now, but I know what it is to be trapped inside yourself with no way out.
And I know nearly every single person I’ve ever let see me in that state has either tried to fix me or left.
My first instinct is to touch him, but something stops me. I don’t know if touch is the right thing. I don’t know if talking is the right thing. I don’t know anything about the clinical side of this, and the realization that I could make it worse roots me to the spot for a long, terrible second.
But then I think about what I’d want. Not the advice. Not the problem-solving. Not the wide-eyed panic on someone’s face that makes you feel like a burden on top of everything else you’re already feeling. Someone not treating it like a fire to put out. Someone staying.
So I stop thinking and start moving.
I step closer, not in front of him but beside him, and I press my shoulder against his arm.
Not grabbing, not pulling, just letting him know I’m here.
When everything feels like too much, sometimes you need proof the ground is still under your feet.
I’ve spent entire PMDD episodes curled up on the bathroom floor because the tile was cold and solid and real.
The least I can do is be something solid for him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him quietly. “And the potatoes aren’t in yet, so we’ve got time.”
It’s a stupid thing to say. Potatoes. He’s in the middle of—whatever this is—and I’m talking about potatoes. But his breath hitches in a different way, and I think—I hope—it’s the ghost of a laugh.
“Breathe with me, okay? I’m not good at a lot of things, but I’m excellent at breathing. Been doing it my whole life.” Another almost-laugh, or maybe a sob. I can’t tell. “In through your nose. Slow.”
I breathe in, loud enough for him to hear. After a moment, he follows. It’s ragged and uneven, but he follows.
“Good. Now out. Slow as you can.”
We do this for what feels like a long time.
Standing side by side in his kitchen, breathing together, while the feta sauce sits half-finished and the grill heats up outside.
His shoulder is shaking against mine, and at some point, my hand finds his on the counter.
I don’t lace our fingers together or squeeze.
I rest mine on top of his, barely there, giving him something to feel that isn’t the edge of the counter cutting into his palm.
I’ve never done this for someone. I’ve been the one on the floor.
I’ve been the one white-knuckling my way through a conversation, praying nobody notices, then going home and crying so hard my ribs ache.
I’ve been the one explaining—again—that no, I’m not being dramatic, and no, I can’t snap out of it, and no, it’s not because I forgot to take a walk this morning or drink enough water or whatever reductive bullshit people offer when they don’t understand that your own brain is waging a war against you every month.
Nobody except Neve has ever just stood next to me and breathed.
And the fact I’m doing it for him—that I instinctively knew this is what he needed—is not something I’m ready to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. I know it’s there. I can feel the warmth of it. But if I look at it, I’ll have to name it, and I’m not sure I have the courage for that yet.
When his breathing finally evens out, he doesn’t move away. He turns his hand over, palm facing up, and I settle my fingers into his.
“Sorry,” he croaks. His voice is wrecked.
“Don’t.” It comes out firmer than I intend, so I soften it. “You don’t get to apologize for this.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he expects me to look at him differently now. Like this moment was supposed to be the one where I realized he was too much. Too broken. Too complicated.
I know that look. I’ve worn it.
After every relationship that crumbled under the weight of my bad weeks.
After every person who said they were fine with it, until they had to live through the lows with me.
After every time I swallowed the words, this is just how my brain works, because I’d learned explaining it didn’t make people stay or understand. Not even my parents.
He’s waiting for me to leave. Or worse—to stay but treat him like he’s fragile.
I refuse to do either.
“I had a session with my therapist today,” he says after a moment.
“It was… a lot. We talked about changing up my meds, and that always stresses me out a little because this is so new to me. And then you mentioned the dinner thing, and I don’t know, it—” He blows out a long breath. “Everything hit at once.”
“Do you need to take any of those medications now?” It feels like an important detail, and not something he should delay.
“Uh, no.” He pauses, closing his eyes like he’s checking in with himself to make sure. “I think I’m good. I took my SSRI this morning, and I don’t feel like I need a benzo at the moment.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He turns his head, opening his eyes. They’re red-rimmed and glassy. He looks so unlike the man who was laughing with his parents that my heart squeezes painfully.
“Yeah, okay. You had a bad moment. You’re allowed to have bad moments.
” I shrug like it’s simple, because to me, it is.
I’ve had a thousand bad moments. I’ll have a thousand more.
The difference isn’t whether they happen—it’s whether someone’s still standing next to you when they’re over.
“And, I mean, I get it. You do everything with meraki. Like you leave a piece of yourself in everything you do. You pour your whole soul into it, regardless of how big or small a task may be. It’s wonderful, but I’m sure it can also be exhausting.
Now, do you want to finish the sauce, or do you want me to attempt it and potentially ruin everything? ”
The laugh that comes out of him is watery but real. “You’d absolutely ruin it.”
“Rude. But fair.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “I’ll do the potatoes. Even I can’t mess up potatoes.”
“You say that with concerning confidence.”
“Shut up and stir your sauce, Peter.”
He picks up the spoon. His hand isn’t entirely steady, but he picks it up, nonetheless.
And when he glances at me—really looks at me, with those ridiculous brown eyes that are still a little glassy—there’s an emotion there that wasn’t before.
Not gratitude, exactly. Something quieter.
Something that says, “You saw me, and you didn’t run. ”
I turn toward the potatoes so he can’t see my face, because I’m pretty sure it’s saying something back.