The Anchor

The touch was a shock to Jax’s system. It was grounding, radiating a steady heat that began to slice through the cold sweat clinging to Jax’s skin.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said gently. "But we aren't staying on the floor. Where are your keys?"

Jax couldn't speak. She could only gesture vaguely with a trembling hand toward the wall. Sam spotted the keys, scooped them up, and smoothly slipped her arm under Jax’s shoulders.

"Come on. Up we go. I've got you," Sam murmured.

Driven more by instinct than conscious thought, Jax leaned into the support. Stripped entirely of her armor, she allowed Sam to guide her to her feet. The world was still spinning, the edges of her vision blurred with panic. Sam unlocked the door to 4B and guided them inside.

Jax’s apartment was a physical manifestation of her need for control. The walls were bare, the furniture was sparse and strictly functional, and there was not a single item out of place. It was a sterile, shadowy cavern. Right now, it felt like a cage.

Sam bypassed the stiff leather armchair and gently guided Jax down to sit on the plush rug in the center of the living room floor. Sitting on the furniture felt too formal, too exposed; the floor was safe. Sam sat cross-legged directly in front of her, their knees nearly touching.

"Look at me, Jax," Sam instructed, her voice holding a quiet authority that Jax couldn't ignore.

Jax forced her eyes open. Her vision swam with tears she furiously tried to blink away. She met Sam’s gaze. Sam’s eyes were a deep, grounding brown, completely devoid of judgment.

"Breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four," Sam said, demonstrating the deep, even breaths. "You're not there anymore. You're here. With me."

Jax tried to follow, but her breath hitched, stuttering in her chest.

"You're okay. Touch my hands," Sam offered, extending her palms upward.

Jax hesitated. Her own hands were calloused, scarred, and trembling violently. She felt like a live wire, dangerous and broken. But the desperate, aching craving for human connection—a craving she had starved out of herself for three years—overrode her fear. Slowly, she reached out and placed her hands in Sam's.

Sam’s grip was soft but incredibly firm. She didn't let Jax pull away when a phantom tremor wracked her shoulders.

"Name three things you can see in this room," Sam prompted, her thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into the rough skin of Jax’s knuckles.

"The... the window," Jax choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "The coffee table. Your sweater."

"Good. What can you feel?"

"Your hands," Jax breathed, the truth of it hitting her square in the chest. "I feel your hands."

Slowly, agonizingly, the phantom smoke cleared from the room. The deafening roar of the collapse faded back into the dark recesses of her memory. Jax’s heart rate began to decelerate, the frantic thrumming slowing to an exhausted, steady beat. The panic attack had passed, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.

And then, the adrenaline receded entirely, making way for something much worse: the shame.