“You have to talk,” I gasp. “I get panic attacks sometimes. In storms. Being in the dark.” I reach out a shaky hand as far as I can, arm straight, without moving any other part of my body. I touch nothing, not sweaty skin, not chilly wall. I can’t hear Wyatt’s breath, just mine. Is he holding it, teasing me? Did I go to sleep? Faint? Did he take off his boots and sneak up the stairs in his socks? Wouldn’t I have heard the sound of the world, seen a shaft of light?
Motherfucker is probably hanging from the ceiling like a bat, about to ask you how many fuckin bugs you've squished or some shit.
