Page 20 of Under Pressure

I do all I can to concentrate on his words, the rhythm of it more than anything else, just trying to get out of my own mind. If I can just breathe with him, everything will be okay. This crushing weight will release.

I clutch at his arms like he’s a lifeline and he lets me, wrinkling the sleeves of his soft cotton shirt, taking in shaky breaths next to his strong ones.

We continue that way for long minutes until it’s safe for me to open my eyes, my chest finally rising and falling in an even tempo. My lashes and cheeks are still wet as I look up at him and he slowly brings a hand up to wipe the moisture away, his thumb featherlight on my skin.

He moves to tuck an errant curl behind my ear, brushing my neck as his hand wanders down, leaving shivers in its wake, then cups the back of my head, cradling it tenderly. The warmth of his fingers relaxes the muscles there, even more so when he gently massages the area, loosening the still lingering tension.

He’s silent, his eyes flicking back and forth between my eyes and mouth, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s signaling. I’m unable to move, to think, to focus on anything but his face gradually coming closer.

I shut my eyes at the first gentle press of his lips. I didn’t know he was capable of such softness, such tenderness. My stomach dips in anticipatory delight as his other hand slides into my hair, holding me more securely to him as he moves his head a fraction, changing the angle of the kiss so it’s deeper now, but still just as slow and exquisitely soft.

I sway toward him, relaxing my hold on his shirt, kissing him back with enthusiasm. I had no idea he felt this way, that he likes me—

A sharp burst of laughter from the hallway outside the lab has us breaking apart, like we were caught doing something wrong even though we’re still alone.

He moves back, seeming to forget that he was bending down, and falls on his butt, his eyes wide and disconcerted, every emotion there for me to see. I’ve never seen him so lost, so unsure, but I can tell the moment his normal assurance slips over him, like armor he’s donning.

He stands and says offhandedly, “You’re welcome,” turning toward the biofeedback machine and fiddling with the buttons.

I’m still processing everything that just happened, how soft his lips were, the hard muscles of his arms, how hot his skin had burned through his shirt. “What?”

“For taking your mind off your panic attack. Redirecting your thoughts.”

My jaw drops. “You kissed me just to distract me?”

He nods tightly, avoiding my gaze, his attention still on the machine.

Makes sense. Why would he kiss you for real?

I turn away from him, straightening papers on the desk that were already perfectly straight until I have my emotions under control again.

“It’s fixed,” he announces. I spin around to find the screen lit up, in perfect working order again. “A couple cables had come loose.”

How had I missed that? “Thanks,” I automatically reply before remembering I’m mad at him. At least I think I am. Before five minutes ago, I didn’t even want him to kiss me. So why should it matter now that it wasn’t a real one?

We both pretend like nothing happened in strained silence before our first participant shows up and then immediately go into experiment mode for the next two hours as each student comes in for their allotted time.

After the last person leaves, he looks over at me expectantly, but I have no idea what to say. Was it obvious to him I was really into that kiss? That I thought it meant more than what it did? Should I play it off like it was no big deal?

“Are you ready to go to Dr. Price’s office?” he asks finally.

Wait, what?

“For the check-in meeting,” he continues when I stare at him blankly.

“Oh, right,” I stammer. I totally forgot about that. We’ll be going over the data we’ve collected and discussing our experiences in the study so far. “I’ll be there in a second.”

He gazes stoically at me for a moment, then leaves, the door softly snicking shut behind him.

I let out a long breath, collecting myself before walking down the hall and out into the main waiting room. His office is open, and I take the same seat next to Tyler I did that first day, after setting a pile of folders and books carefully on the floor. The area is still as messy as ever, probably even worse now that the semester is in full swing. There’s also what looks like a day-old sandwich on the desk and half-eaten cookie. I’m so glad he doesn’t do any of his experiments in the room we’re assigned to, or the place would be just as junked up.

Tyler doesn’t look my way, but I can sense his attention on me all the same, even as we answer Dr. Price’s questions. What are the data trends so far, are we finding anything that surprises us, how are the participants engaging with the study?

Things are going smoothly until I’m asked about how comfortable I feel using the biofeedback machine and I immediately freeze up. Is it unethical not to mention what happened today? Do I have a duty to report it? Or is it okay not to say anything since technically it didn’t involve the participants in any way?

I waver, the length of time between the question and my continued silence glaringly apparent until Tyler chimes in, “Actually, we had an issue.”

My head swivels toward him in surprise. Is he going to rat me out?

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