Leave Me Breathless

I stand back, breathing in, starting to shake. It’s not anger that has me this way. It’s fear. I move in, shoving my body against the door on a grunt as I hold the handle, not wanting to create too much noise. I hear the sound of metal hitting the floor on the other side and push my way in, my eyes immediately falling to the broken glass. I gently close the door behind me and stand still for a moment, listening.

Silence.

Agonizing silence.

My years in the job warn me not to call out. Instead, I walk on quiet feet through her shop to the back kitchen, ever watchful, ever alert. I make it to the kitchenette, looking toward the door to the stairs of her apartment. I take the handle. Turn it as softly as I can. Pull it open a fraction, tensing when the wood creaks. And when the gap is big enough for me to peek through, I freeze.

Because I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.

I inhale, taking one calm step back, and slowly follow the length of the arm to the body of the person holding it. ‘Put the gun down, Hannah,’ I say coolly, watching her closely, her whole form quaking. ‘It’s me. Ryan. Put the gun down.’

It’s a staring deadlock for a few, nerve-racking seconds. Me calm. Her completely spooked. I say nothing more, just stand there, motionless, waiting for consciousness to break through her barrier of terror. Her shakes get worse, and her grip on the gun tightens. It’s me, Hannah. It’s me.

She whimpers, her arm drops, and she staggers back, falling to the stairs behind her.

Jesus.

I move in, gently taking the gun from her limp hand. Naturally, I release the magazine and check if it’s loaded. I don’t know why my heart sinks when I see the bullets. Maybe because it tells me she’s prepared to use deadly force. She’s afraid for her life. The question is: Who is she afraid of and prepared to kill? But it’s a question for later. For now, I have a terrified woman to take care of.

Slipping the magazine in my pocket and the gun in the waistband of my jeans, I move in, taking her hand gently, letting her feel me for a few moments, her fingers weaving through mine as she watches. When I’m sure she’s comfortable, her shakes calming, I crouch before her, taking the other hand. She looks up at me. And in this moment, the only thing I can think to do that doesn’t involve demanding answers is make her feel as at ease as possible. So I drop to my knees and walk forward on them, getting as close as I can and slipping my hand into her hair at her temple. She leans into it, closing her eyes and breathing deeply but now steady.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ I say softly, applying a light force to her head and encouraging her toward me. When our lips touch, I taste her fear. It’s potent.

My kiss is soft, and meant to be. It’s something familiar to her. Something comforting. No tongues. Just lips. Just the feel of me close to bring her around. I only peel my mouth from hers when her body softens. It takes a lot longer than I’d like.

‘Come.’ I help her up and turn her, holding her waist as she climbs the stairs in front of me. I take her to the couch and sit her down, then head for the kitchen on the other side of the room, putting the kettle on, though Lord knows I could do with something stronger. I navigate around the small kitchen, constantly looking across to Hannah as I make us tea. She seems vacant, her body heavy, like there’s too much on her mind to deal with. I have to lighten the load. Take the weight off her shoulders. Seeing her like this physically hurts me.

I go to her with the mugs of tea, settling on the other end of the couch, not wanting to invade her space too much. Handle with care. ‘Here.’ I hold out a cup, and she looks at it for a few seconds, seeming confused, before lifting her gaze to mine. She smiles meekly and wraps both hands around the mug, but she doesn’t drink any, just rests it in her hands on her knee.

Then, quiet.

I really don’t want to be the one to lead this conversation; I want her to willingly open up. So I wait, resting back, silently willing her to reach deep and find the strength she needs. Long moments pass, and with each second, I slowly lose any hope I had of her confiding in me. She’s not going to talk. Does she really think she can nearly shoot my head off and we sweep it under the carpet like it never happened?