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On a packed C train in the middle of evening rush hour with at least another 20 minutes until your stop was an incredibly inopportune time to have a panic attack. And yet, you were having a panic attack on a packed C train in the middle of evening rush hour with at least another 20 minutes until your stop.
You tried to follow your therapist’s technique of measured breathing—inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four—but you kept getting distracted. There were so many people. So, so many people. All around you, trapping you in the center of the car. You finally understood why they sometimes called a crowd a crush. Logically, you knew you had plenty of room to breathe and move around, you’d been on more crowded subway rides before, but that didn’t matter to your anxious brain.
And you were so hot. You always knew when you were having a panic attack because you’d suddenly be sweltering. You tried rolling up the sleeves of your sweater, your jacket already folded over an arm because you’d expected the subway to be warm even in the dead of winter. But it wasn’t enough. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe—
A hand wrapped around yours on the metal pole you’d been gripping hard enough your knuckles were stark white and your head snapped up to find a blond man with bright blue eyes and and a friendly smile staring down at you. There was an indent between his brows, like he was concerned even as he tried to come off as not creepy as possible despite his actions. He had a face you instantly liked, but he was still a stranger touching you on the subway when your heart was already pounding hard enough in your chest you were scared it might give out.
Before you could demand to know what the hell he was doing, his hand slid down to your wrist, his fingers pressing into your fluttering pulse like he was monitoring your heart rate. The line between his blond brows deepened.
“Panic attack?” he guessed rightly. You nodded, suddenly unsure if your lips would work if you tried to speak. “What’s your name, darling?” he asked softly. It took a few tries, but after a few stumbling attempts, you managed to tell the man your name. He smiled, his brow clearing, but you could still see concern swirling deep in his blue eyes, though he hid it well. “I’m Steve.”
The C train pulled into the Fulton station, the last one in Manhattan before going to Brooklyn—the last stop before the long trip through the tunnel beneath the East River. An unpleasant flash of heat cascaded through your body as you looked around at the people getting on and off, debating whether you should escape and ride out your panic attack on the platform before catching a later train home.
“Angel,” Steve rumbled in that deep voice of his. “You’re okay, you’re going to be okay—can you repeat that for me?”
Slowly and with plenty of effort, you dragged your attention back to Steve. You tried to suck in a deep breath, but failed. Still you pressed on. “You’re okay, you’re going to be okay,” you mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed, but doing as he asked all the same.
Steve huffed a laugh. “No, I meant, say, ‘I’m okay, I’m going to be okay.’”
Scrunching up your nose in reluctance, the sound of the doors closing shocked you enough to make you jump, and thanks to the sudden start of the train, you ended up falling right into Steve’s chest. He was solid and sturdy and you couldn’t help but notice—with your face pressed into the front of the navy blue jacket he wore—that he smelled amazingly good. Like one of those candles you’d light to soothe yourself, but manly.
Steve wrapped his arm around your waist to steady you and when you didn’t pull away, he encouraged you to shuffle closer. “Say the words, angel,” he urged in a soft, calm voice that was almost hypnotic with how soothing you found it.
Already, you could feel your panic receding, but you were still compelled to do as he encouraged. “I’m okay,” you murmured, your tongue sweeping out to wet your suddenly dry lower lip. You couldn’t help but notice Steve’s blue eyes dart down to follow the movement. Abruptly, a new, not-so-unpleasant heat was spreading across your face, pooling in your cheeks and sinking lower in your body. “I’m going to be okay,” you finished, your voice breathier than it had been when you’d been panicking.
“Good girl,” Steve said, his voice so low it was almost a purr, the words and his voice settling deep inside you. His eyes were slightly hooded and he kept glancing down at your mouth. There was a weightiness to his gaze that you swore you could feel in every nerve, your body responding to the steady heaviness of his eyes. Your lips tingled with want and you unconsciously tilted your head back, offering him a clearer path to kissing you.
Then the train pulled into High St, coming to a jolting stop. Steve held you braced against his chest, his other hand still wrapped around your wrist. You held your breath and waited for the panic to return, but it didn’t. The only feeling in your body was that different kind of warmth, and it felt much more pleasant.
When you looked up at Steve as the doors closed and the train rushed off again, his expression was clearer. “Your heart rate’s coming down,” he said in a more normal voice. “Are you feeling better?”
Suddenly shy, and wondering why you were acting so silly in front of the stranger who was just trying to help, you dropped your gaze to his clavicle. You spoke to his jacket when you answered, “Yeah… thanks.” Reluctantly, you moved to step back, out of Steve’s personal space, but his arm protested, holding you there and you glanced up at him.
The handsome not-a-stranger-anymore quirked his mouth in a charming smile. “Don’t wanna let you go too soon,” he said, giving an almost self-deprecating wince before rushing on to explain. “Just in case your legs are weak.”
“Okay,” you mumbled, not sure how to take his clarification. But it meant you could lean against Steve’s broad chest and you were all too happy to do so. Feeling safe in his arms, you let go of the subway pole and pressed both hands to his pecs while Steve held on for both of you. A little smile played on your lips when you kept staring at each other, the fact that neither of you looked away felt nice instead of awkward as you’d have expected.
Steve’s blue gaze roved over your face, reading your expression and his eyes softened as he smiled down at you. “Maybe we should get some sugar in you, angel,” he suggested, a little playfulness peaking through his friendly countenance. “I know a great ice cream place off Clinton-Washington.”
“Is that my reward for being good?” you teased in an innocent voice.
Surprise flared in Steve’s eyes before the blue darkened and the heat returned to his gaze. “Because you were a good girl for me?” he countered in a deep, low voice.
Your cheeks flushed and it was your turn for your gaze to dart down to his mouth, using the movement of the train to press closer to him. You really liked it when he called you a good girl, and you wanted to hear him say it again, but you didn’t know how to prompt it. So you settled for answering his question, your voice coming out light and breathy, “Yes, Steve.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, giving your waist a squeeze with his strong arm, pulling you flush against his hard body for a moment before he stepped back and began to lead you toward the subway car doors. You hadn’t realized it, but the train had arrived at the station he’d mentioned. You followed after Steve happily while he pushed through the crowded train and platform. You giggled when he threw a charming grin over his shoulder at you and said, with boyish enthusiasm, “Excuse me, I gotta get this girl some ice cream!”