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Summary
Shane swallowed hard, tears still slipping down his face, but he managed another breath. Then another. Each one shaky. Each one fragile. But they were coming. Ilya kept his hand steady against his back, the other still lightly holding his forearm.
“You’re okay,” he repeated quietly. “I’m right here.”
Shane’s voice came out broken and small. “I'm sorry. I couldn’t- I tried- I needed-”
His words dissolved into another shaky inhale, frustration and shame mixing with the remnants of panic. Ilya didn’t press him to explain. He knew Shane’s mind was still tangled in whatever storm had triggered this.
Right now, breathing mattered more than understanding. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said softly. “Just breathe.”
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The pressure gets to Shane and he has an anxiety attack mid-game.