[It takes her an embarrassingly long time to kerb the panic attack and get her breathing under control. Her eyes are squeezed shut; she takes deep breaths, counts backwards from thirty and tells herself that it's Kieren, not some brainless rapid. She breathes in and out until her hands have stopped shaking and she has the strength to open her eyes.
When she turns back, he's facing away and she feels awful for it.
She still doesn't talk; it takes all her courage to reach out and link her fingers through his. He's freezing cold, like he always is. ]
I know. I know it's you.
[She does; she knows it's not a rational reaction. ]
It's just -- [his eyes, and he doesn't have his contacts. She's going to have to get used to them or avoid Kieren altogether. She takes her hand away to clench it by her side. She exhales, shakily. ] It's your eyes, I'm not -- good. With them.
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When she turns back, he's facing away and she feels awful for it.
She still doesn't talk; it takes all her courage to reach out and link her fingers through his. He's freezing cold, like he always is. ]
I know. I know it's you.
[She does; she knows it's not a rational reaction. ]
It's just -- [his eyes, and he doesn't have his contacts. She's going to have to get used to them or avoid Kieren altogether. She takes her hand away to clench it by her side. She exhales, shakily. ] It's your eyes, I'm not -- good. With them.