Part One: Justin

Everything was perfect.

Brian and I were finally together in New York, making both of our dreams come true. I was working from a spacious, comfortable studio in SoHo, and the first show of my return to the city was scheduled for the following weekend. Brian was out with a real estate broker, looking at potential office spaces for the soon-to-be New York expansion of Kinnetik. We had wedding rings on our fingers, having finally tied the knot a few years before, in front of all of our family and friends in Pittsburgh.

Our lives were full of new and exciting opportunities, both professionally and personally. I felt like everything was falling into place in a nice, neat, orderly fashion, one piece after another.

Then, I had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the puzzle that was my life -- so carefully and painstakingly assembled over the years -- was picked up and thrown to the ground, scattering the pieces everywhere.

And everything wasn’t so perfect anymore.

I was supposed to be meeting Brian for dinner in Midtown after spending the afternoon putting the finishing touches on the last piece for my upcoming show. I was on my way there, standing on a packed subway platform alongside dozens of other people, debating on sending Brian a text to let him know I was on my way, when the train finally showed up, more than ten minutes late.

I could see that every car was packed before it ever came to a stop, and I hoped there would be a lot of people getting off, though I knew it was a long shot, especially at that hour, when many people were taking the express train from their downtown jobs to their swanky apartments on the Upper East Side. Normally, I was doing the same, though I preferred to wait another hour or so, to let rush hour die down a bit. Crowds were still not my favorite thing, although it had been a long, long time since the anxiety I’d been left with after the bashing had impacted my life in any significant way, beyond feeling my heart rate increase ever-so-slightly when I was in a space that was particularly chaotic or loud.

That was exactly what happened when I stepped onto the subway train, into the throng of commuters and fellow artists and other New Yorkers. It wasn’t particularly loud, but the shoulder-to-shoulder condition of the train car made me uncomfortable, even though I’d managed to find a few square feet of space in the corner where my body wasn’t touching anyone else’s. I made eye contact briefly -- and entirely by accident -- with the woman who was occupying the seat next to where I stood. She had on a wool peacoat and was clutching an expensive-looking leather attache case in her lap. Her eyes were kind, and she gave me the slightest hint of a smile, though neither of us said anything to the other -- true New Yorkers, I suppose, in that way. Keeping to ourselves. Minding our own business.

I had just let my brain drift off, thinking about the menu at the restaurant where Brian and I were meeting, when I heard a loud voice behind me.

“Hey! Watch it, you fuckin’ faggot!”

I couldn’t hear what was said in response, but I saw the movement of bodies out of the corner of my eye as pushes turned into shoves and voices quickly escalated, until everything being said was unintelligible. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest as my breath started to speed up, and I tightened my fingers around my phone in my coat pocket, even though I knew that the chances of getting a strong enough signal to make a call in the subway tunnel were between slim and none. I’d just started to edge my way toward the door -- planning to get off at the next stop and hail a cab instead -- when the first punch was thrown, and a body crashed into mine, pinning me against the front wall of the train car.

That was the moment when chaos seemed to descend upon me. Fists and elbows flew and random strangers’ bodies collided with mine, pressing me against the wall with such force I could barely breathe, until someone grabbed my coat and jerked me forward, causing me to bump my head on one of the poles in the center of the car as I struggled to keep from falling onto the floor, where I was certain I would be trampled in the uproar. Just before I lost my footing, yet another body crashed into me, somehow pushing me back upright, though I was still struggling to keep my balance amid the dizziness and confusion that was quickly taking over. I had to get out of there. That thought arose so suddenly that it crashed through my brain like an anvil, obliterating every rational thought in its path. All I wanted was to get off the train, but my only path to the door as we hurtled through the dark tunnel was blocked by a mass of bodies, pulsating with movement and noise.

My skin suddenly felt ice cold, and my throat constricted so tightly that my breath started to come in short gasps, none of which were giving me the oxygen I needed. I started to feel lightheaded, like I was going to pass out, though I was trying desperately to keep my wits about me so I could get the fuck out of that train car. The flurry of activity around me was dizzying, further throwing me off-balance, both physically and mentally. I tried to shrink back into the wall as the crowd of people undulated toward me once again, and that was when I noticed the woman who had been sitting beside me was now standing between me and the mass of bodies, her back to me and her extended arm serving as a barrier of sorts, until they moved in the other direction again and she turned toward me, a clear expression of concern in her kind eyes.

“Are you okay? I think you hit your head.”

Her voice sounded far away. Tinny. Like she was speaking to me through a staticky telephone line, instead of standing right in front of me. My vision started to blur as the world tilted and stretched around me, sounds and voices coming and going but not making any sense. My face felt wet, and I realized that I was crying, but I had no idea when I’d started or how long I’d been doing it. My perception of time was blurred as well, and I felt like I was caught somewhere between reality and a looming sense of darkness that seemed to be descending upon me like a lead blanket, crushing me beneath its weight as I struggled to breathe.

“Give him some room!”

The same voice, even farther away this time, and much more urgent.

My heart was still hammering in my chest, and my vision was beginning to fade out, the colors around me being overtaken by shades of gray, as if my entire body was shutting down. I continued to gasp for air, my back pressed against the wall as my legs shook, until they gave way and I slid down to the floor, where my arms -- seemingly of their own volition -- wrapped around my knees, hugging them close to my chest as I pressed my forehead into them, trying to make myself as small as possible.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched away involuntarily, pulling myself into an even tighter ball. I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands over my ears in a futile effort to block out the noise. Somewhere in the bedlam of my mind, I heard the garbled voice of the train conductor over the loudspeaker, though I couldn’t understand what was being said, and I started to wonder how much of what I was seeing and hearing and experiencing was real, or whether I was hallucinating. I still couldn’t breathe, and my grip on consciousness felt as precarious as my grip on reality, making me wonder if I was about to die right there, on the dirty floor of a subway car somewhere between my studio and the restaurant where Brian was probably already waiting.

Part Two: Jane

I’m not quite sure what made me look up at him, or what it was about him that made me think he could use a smile that day. Maybe it was because he reminded me of my younger brother, with his thick, dark blond hair falling over clear blue eyes. Maybe it was because I could tell he looked uncomfortable, and I wondered if he was claustrophobic, and had just found himself with no choice but to get into an absolutely packed subway car.

I was on my way home from work, after a day that had been trying to say the least, and I was looking forward to seeing my fifth-floor walkup and settling in for some mindless television with a glass of wine, and maybe ordering in as a treat. I was debating whether to continue my current Netflix binge or start a new one, when a scene I can only describe as complete and total chaos broke out in front of me.

I think it might have started as someone accidentally stepping on someone else’s foot, or otherwise getting in their space, and the next thing I knew, there were at least a half-dozen people shouting at each other and pushing and shoving, and punches were being thrown. Then, a falling body crashed into the young man standing in front of me, pinning him against the wall. A split second later, someone grabbed him and yanked him forward and into one of the poles. I scrambled to my feet, hoping to keep him from falling, but another body bumped into him before I got to him, pushing him back upright. His eyes were wide and glazed over, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. I asked him if he was okay, but he didn’t respond -- he simply looked at me and blinked a couple of times, as if he might not have understood what I said. His breath was coming in rapid gasps, and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere except where he was right at that moment.

When his body began to tremble and tears started to fall, I realized what I was seeing -- that this wasn’t about him hitting his head at all. He was having an anxiety attack, and he needed help.

I tried to turn myself into a human shield of sorts, attempting to keep the crowd of bickering people away from the young man as he looked more and more like he wanted to become one with the wall and disappear. I knew I needed to remain calm for his sake, but the pandemonium happening around us made that extremely difficult, particularly as I fought to get people to give him some room, so as to not make the situation worse. My pleas, however, attracted even more attention, and soon there were three more people pushing their way through the crowd, intending to help, but doing more harm than good as the sudden movement of their bodies and the panic in their voices only caused him to shrink even further into himself, until his knees finally gave way and he sank down to the floor, curled up in a tight ball. He flinched at every sound and every movement, until he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, his face buried between his knees, still breathing much too fast.

Before I could even think about it, I was on my knees in front of him, trying to stay close without getting too close, for his sake. I knew there were two things I needed to do: get him breathing normally before he ended up hyperventilating, and get him off the train. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure how I was going to do either one of those things, given the state he was in at that moment.

Another loud voice joined the melee, this one belonging to a police officer who had apparently been in another car and had somehow been alerted to what was happening in ours. The young man flinched again at the sudden sound, this time letting out a barely audible groan as he pulled his knees in even tighter.

Seconds later, the train lurched to a stop, and I glanced up and out the window to see where we were -- 34th Street. A busy station at any time of day, and especially at rush hour. I looked over my shoulder to see that three of the men I recognized as having been involved in the fight left the train with the police officer, but that, unfortunately, wasn’t the end to the unrest in our car. Loud arguments over who was right and who was wrong, and who should have done what and when, were still swirling around us, and there remained an undercurrent of tension and unrest that I knew wasn’t helping the young man in front of me, who was still struggling to breathe. Who desperately needed reassurance that he was safe.

“They’re gone,” I said, keeping my voice as soft and gentle as possible, while still making sure he would be able to hear me over the random conversations and rehashings of the previous few minutes’ events taking place all around us. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

I kept repeating those two phrases -- you’re okay, and you’re safe -- like a mantra, until his death grip on his legs seemed to relax just a tiny bit. His breathing, however, was as rapid as ever, and didn’t seem to be slowing down at all. As the doors closed and the train started to move again, I held out my hand in front of me, hesitantly. Resisting the urge to reach out and take his hand in mine, just to give him something solid to hold on to. I knew I had to let him be the one to make the first move, otherwise I was risking making everything worse. I knew that from experience -- many years of unfortunate experience with my own brother, Joshua. Ironically, the same one this man had reminded me of when he’d first stepped onto the train.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” I asked, hoping and praying that he would take me up on my offer. I tried to ignore everything else that was happening around us and focus solely on him -- on figuring out how I could get him the help he needed.

It took several seconds that might as well have been hours before he untangled one of his arms from around his legs and reached for my hand, gripping it tightly. I held his just as tightly in return, grateful that he’d trusted me.

“Can you take a deep breath with me?”

I kept my voice as gentle and calm as possible, hoping that I could, once again, get him to do what I asked, for his own sake. I inhaled deeply, squeezing his hand as I did, then exhaled slowly. I did it again, and again, until I noticed his breathing had slowed just a little, though it was still far from normal, and each and every exhale seemed to come with an audible shudder.

“What do you need right now?”

I knew to ask that question next, because keeping him in the driver’s seat, so to speak, was vital. I wasn’t sure I’d get an answer, though, or if he even had it in his power to speak at that moment. When he didn’t respond, I moved on to yes or no questions, hoping I’d at least be able to get a nod or a shake of the head out of him.

“Do you want to get off the train at the next stop?”

After a few more agonizing seconds, he nodded, without looking up.

“Okay, can you stand up for me? I’ve got you. I’m right here if you need help.”

We both finally managed to get to our feet -- me taking on a good portion of his weight despite the fact that he was a good six inches taller than me -- just as the train stopped at 42nd Street. Another busy station, and not my first choice for a place to take someone who was in the midst of an anxiety attack, but I didn’t really have a choice. I needed to get him off the train.

He stumbled alongside me as we stepped out onto the platform, my arm around his waist, helping hold him up. I looked both ways, through the bustling crowd of commuters, for somewhere I could take him to sit down, so I could at least get him breathing more normally before attempting to get him up the stairs and into someplace more calm -- likely a tall order anywhere in the vicinity of Times Square, but I was going to try it anyway. Again, I had no choice. Thankfully, there was a bench at one end of the platform where there were seemed to be fewer people standing around, so I led him there, helping him sit before joining him on the bench.

The young man immediately slumped forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, still breathing much too hard, though I could tell from his posture, which was a little less guarded, that he was feeling at least some slight relief from being off the train.

“Can you breathe with me?” It wasn’t a question so much as something I was hoping I could get him to do, so we could get out of the subway station and find someplace quiet for him to recover. I counted out loud, slowly, as I inhaled.

“One… two… three… four…”

And again, as I exhaled.

“One… two… three… four…”

I repeated those numbers as I continued breathing in and out, slowly and deeply, praying he would follow my lead. Eventually -- thankfully -- he did.

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” I said again, rubbing my hand slowly across his back, in circles that I hoped were comforting.

We sat right there in silence for at least five more minutes, and I felt like I could sense some of the tension draining out of his muscles with each deep inhale and exhale as I continued breathing along with him, still running my hand over his back, just as I’d done with my brother so many times. When the tremor that had been so present in each and every one of his breaths slowly began to ease, I waited until it was gone completely before I spoke again.

“I’m Jane,” I said softly. “My brother has panic attacks, and he has since we were kids. I know what’s happening, and I’m going to keep helping you, okay?”

The young man gave a small nod and swallowed hard, though he still didn’t look up. I knew this had to be every bit as embarrassing as it was scary, and I was sure he was feeling a mixture of very strong emotions as he struggled for control, making that struggle even more challenging.

“Can you tell me your name?”

It took a few more seconds before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, barely audible in the busy subway station.

“Justin.”

“Okay, Justin,” I began, still making a conscious effort to keep my voice as calm and gentle as possible, so I could continue to be a grounding presence, bringing him back out of his thoughts and into the present moment. “Would you like me to try to find someplace more quiet where we can sit for a while?”

He nodded again, followed by another hard swallow, and a shaky breath.

“Do you think you can get up the stairs if I help you?” His response was once again a small nod, so I wrapped my arm around his waist and said, “Okay, let’s go. I’ve got you.”

I waited for him to make the first move, then I followed, again taking on a good portion of his weight, though not quite as much as before. I could feel the slight tremor still present in his body -- the familiar anxious buzz I’d felt so many times in Joshua -- as I led him toward the exit, carefully selecting one that I felt might get us a better chance at being out of the hubbub of Times Square. We moved slowly but steadily, until we were up the stairs and outside on the sidewalk, where a frigid wind immediately smacked us in the face. I glanced over at Justin, checking in with him. His breathing was still a little unsteady, but he wasn’t gasping for breath, and he looked like he might have been coming back to me, slowly.

I looked around to get my bearings before leading us both away from Times Square itself, hoping to find a coffee shop or a cafe that didn’t appear to be too busy. My prayers were answered about half a block west, with a little cafe that was nearly deserted. I got both of us through the door, then led Justin over to what looked to be a quiet corner, tucked out of the way just a bit.

I helped him lower himself into one of the chairs -- one facing the door, in case he, like Joshua, didn’t like not being able to see the exit -- then made sure he was settled before I stepped up to the counter to purchase two bottles of water. I kept an eye on him the entire time I was at the cash register, but he wasn’t moving at all. He seemed frozen, just blinking, staring at his folded hands on the table, which were still trembling just slightly.

When I got back to the table, I twisted the cap off one of the bottles of water and set it down in front of him. He hesitated a little as he wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the bottle, bringing it to his lips slowly and carefully before taking a small sip.

He seemed to need a minute or two -- or five, and who could blame him -- so I let him have that, just sitting quietly across the table from him as he sipped the water and focused on his breath, keeping it slow and steady.

“Would you like me to call your wife?” I asked, my gaze focused on the platinum band on his left ring finger. “So she knows where you are and what happened?”

“Husband,” he said softly, the first time he’d spoken since he’d told me his name back in the subway station.

“Okay.” I gave him a warm smile that I hoped was reassuring, as my brain began to put the pieces together of what might have actually triggered the attack, recalling the homophobic slur that had been shouted just before the fight broke out. Part of me wondered what in this young man’s past might have been underlying the anxiety that had pushed him over the edge in that train car, but it wasn’t my business, and I wasn’t going to ask. It made me sad, though, because no one deserves to live in fear simply because of who they are or who they love. “Do you have your phone? I’ll call him for you. I know it’s hard to talk right now… hard to think.”

Justin closed his eyes briefly and inhaled another shaky breath before pulling his phone out of his coat pocket. He unlocked it with his thumbprint, then pushed it across the table toward me.

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Brian,” he murmured, before inhaling yet another halting breath. “I was-- I was meeting him somewhere.”

“I’ll call him right now,” I said, involuntarily reaching over to lay my other hand over one of his, sensing that his anxiety was rising once again, probably motivated by the realization that his husband might be worried about him. I scrolled through his contact list, looking for Brian, grateful that it didn’t take long to find his entry. “You just keep taking deep breaths, okay?”

Justin nodded and let his eyes drift shut again, taking in a deep breath that had a hitch in the middle that made my heart hurt.

“You’re okay; you’re safe,” I whispered, giving him another gentle reminder that the danger was over, as I waited for Brian to pick up.

Part Three: Brian

I glanced at my watch one more time, wondering where in the hell Justin was, as I debated trying to call him again. I’d already tried twice, but he hadn’t answered -- which wasn’t surprising, given that he should have been in the subway, on his way to meet me at the restaurant. But he was twenty minutes late, which wasn’t like Justin at all. Justin was normally at least fifteen minutes early, everywhere he went.

I took a sip from the glass of whiskey I’d ordered as I waited, tapping my fingers idly against the glass as I set it back down. I was still trying to figure out whether I should be worried that something had happened to Justin, or pissed off that he’d apparently forgotten our dinner plans, when my phone started buzzing in my pocket.

I pulled it out to reveal Justin’s smiling face on the screen -- one of my favorite photos of him -- and swiped my thumb across it to answer.

“Where the fuck are you?” Worry and anger were still warring for top billing inside my brain, though my voice seemed to be conveying more of the anger at the moment, so I tried to soften it with humor in my next sentence. “I’ve got good news, and you’re making me sit here all alone at a restaurant like a jilted lover.”

I expected to hear one of two things: either Justin’s nervous laugh and an explanation that he’d been wrapped up in a painting and lost track of time, or a defensive rant about late subway trains and how hard it is to catch a cab at rush hour. But I heard neither of those things. What I heard was a woman’s voice.

“Is this Brian?” she asked, a clear hesitation in her tone.

I could barely choke out an affirmative answer as I tried to sort out why a woman would be calling me from Justin’s phone, knowing full-well that none of the potential reasons were good.

“I’m with Justin,” she continued. “And I want you to know he’s okay, but he had an anxiety attack on the subway.”

Before she could say anything else, I was up and pulling a wad of cash out of my wallet to throw down on the table to cover the whiskey and a generous tip, shrugging my coat on, and heading out the door as I pelted the mystery woman on the phone with a barrage of questions about where they were and what had happened. All she would give me was the address, choosing to answer the rest of my questions with a simple, “We’ll talk when you get here.”

I knew that was probably the best option, especially if something had happened to trigger an anxiety attack in Justin, because I really did prefer to be there in person if talking about it triggered him again, but at the same time, I wanted to know now. And patience had never been my strong suit. But I didn’t have a choice. All I could do was get there.

It felt like it took hours to hail a cab, though I know it was only minutes. Still, those minutes separated me from Justin -- the one person I never wanted to be separated from again. It was why I’d married him. Why we’d come to New York together this time.

I threw two twenty-dollar bills at the cab driver and practically jumped out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop in front of a little sandwich shop on 44th, then rushed through the door, frantically looking for Justin. I saw him sitting in a chair in the furthest corner of the room, facing the door. He looked okay, for the most part, if a little tired. He was talking quietly with the woman who sat across from him -- presumably the woman who had called me from his phone -- and had both of his hands wrapped around a steaming ceramic mug.

It was all I could do not to immediately put my hands on Justin -- to touch him and physically confirm for myself that he was okay -- but I knew that would only make things worse if I forced myself on him. It always had. But it hadn’t been an issue in years -- at least, that I knew of. I hoped it wasn’t something Justin had been hiding, though I honestly didn’t see how he would hide it. Justin’s many anxiety attacks were a not-so-pleasant -- and very distant -- memory of our shared past, though I recalled clearly how debilitating they could be. How sometimes he didn’t want to be touched, and other times he would cling to me like I was his last lifeline. But he had to be the one to make that decision. No matter how much it would help me to feel him in my arms.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long, because as soon as I sat down next to Justin, he had his arms around me and his face buried in my shoulder. I could feel the slight shudder in the deep breaths he was taking as he held onto me tightly, but at the same time, I could feel his relief, which helped alleviate some of the apprehension I was feeling. At least, until he let go and I saw the blood on his coat.

“Sunshine, is this yours? Are you bleeding?” I tried to keep the alarm out of my voice, though I wasn’t sure I succeeded.

Justin looked down at it and blinked, confused, as if he was just seeing it for the first time. “No, I don’t think…” He paused and put a hand to his forehead, before taking it away and looking at it as if he was checking for blood. “No, it’s not mine.”

“I don’t think it’s his,” the woman chimed in. “There was a fight, on the subway. It happened next to us, and there was a lot going on, but I’ve been with Justin the whole time, and I haven’t noticed him bleeding.”

“A fight? What the… Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?”

“I’m fine,” Justin insisted.

“He did bump his head, but I didn’t see--”

“Justin.” I cut the woman off before she could finish her sentence and turned to address Justin directly. I knew it was rude, and I was thankful for her help up until that point, but she didn’t know shit, and she didn’t know Justin. She didn’t know that Justin hitting his head could quickly escalate into a very serious situation. “Does your head hurt?”

He shook his head. “I promise, I’m okay now. Just really tired, and I want to go home.” He looked up at me, suddenly looking very small and vulnerable -- and so not like himself -- and I saw the sheen of tears come over his eyes before he blinked them back. “Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “Take me home.”

“Okay, Sunshine.” I reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze, though I didn’t like how cold it felt. That -- along with the fact that he’d needed and accepted help from a total stranger -- told me a lot about how severe this anxiety attack had been. “Okay,” I repeated, more for my benefit than his, I think, as I was still trying to come down from my own adrenaline rush. “We’ll go home.”

“Jane saved me,” Justin said softly, gesturing across the table at the mystery woman, whose long, brown hair was in a single braid that wound its way over her left shoulder. “If she hadn’t been there, I’d probably still be on that train, or… I don’t know.”

“I was just in the right place at the right time.” Jane gave us both a kind smile before she continued. “My brother has severe anxiety; he always has. I knew exactly what I was seeing, and that there was probably no way he’d be able to get through it alone. And even if he could, it’s always better to have someone there with you, helping you and advocating for you when you can’t help yourself. I’m glad I was there.”

“Thank you.” I reached across the table to shake Jane’s hand, then pulled out my wallet, intending to give her a little something to help her get home and to thank her for upending her entire evening to help Justin.

“Oh, you don’t owe me anything,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I was happy to do it.”

“At least let me pay for all of this.” I gestured to the two empty water bottles and the half-consumed mug of tea sitting in front of Justin. “And a cab to take you home.”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s fine. Just pay it forward. Do something kind for someone else when you get the chance.”

I looked at her genuine smile, and her bright blue eyes that reminded me of Justin’s, and I found myself suddenly grateful for the kindness of strangers -- the sort of people Debbie would have referred to as “angels on earth.” Even in New York, they existed. And one was sitting right in front of me.

“I will,” I said, my voice a little thicker than I would have liked, though I managed to give her an easy smile. “Thank you again.”

“Happy to help.”

I shook her hand one more time as Justin and I both got up to leave. When we got out to the sidewalk, I was kicking myself for not bribing the cab driver with a large sum of money to sit and wait, but I’d been so focused on getting to Justin as quickly as possible that I hadn’t even thought of it. Regardless, I was sure it would probably be a long time before Justin got on the subway again, so hailing a cab was all I could do.

Thankfully, only a half-dozen occupied taxi cabs passed us by before an empty one stopped. Justin sat in the middle of the back seat, leaning his body into mine, tucked under my arm in the spot where he’d always seemed to fit just perfectly. He was shivering, and every now and then he’d let out a shaky breath, but overall, he did seem to be okay, which I was extremely grateful for. I knew things could have been much, much worse.

By the time we got to our apartment building, Justin was asleep on my shoulder. I hated to wake him, but I knew that carrying him in -- the way I had a sleeping Gus on many occasions in both Pittsburgh and Toronto, before he got too big to hold -- wasn’t an option, so I rubbed my hand over his arm as we pulled up in front of our building, giving him a gentle wake-up call before the cabbie had a chance to say anything loud or rude.

“Sunshine, we’re home,” I whispered. “Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”

I paid the driver and ushered Justin inside, waving off the doorman, who was regarding Justin’s obviously-exhausted physical state with marked concern, before escorting him into the elevator and pressing the button for our floor.

All of Justin’s movements were sluggish, and I knew why -- because the adrenaline crash was every bit as big as the adrenaline high he’d been experiencing when his anxiety was at its peak. He would probably sleep for the rest of the evening, but I knew I needed to get some food into him too. That could wait, though. First, I needed to get him into the shower so I could bring some warmth back into his still-too-cold extremities, then I needed to get him into bed. From there, I’d just play it by ear, following his lead.

Justin leaned against the wall of the shower, his head tipped back and his eyes closed, while I soaped him up and rinsed him off, keeping the hot spray turned toward him, in hopes that it would help warm him up and stop the shivering that had been happening the entire cab ride home. When the water started to cool, I turned it off and dried us both, wrapping one of the large, fluffy towels Justin had insisted on buying for the apartment around his body, suddenly thankful we had them, because they did make the drying-off process much faster and easier, and they were just… comforting. Something he needed.

I got him into a pair of sweatpants and one of his ratty, old PIFA t-shirts, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward our king-sized bed, pulling back the duvet for him. I waited for him to climb in, then tucked the covers back around him.

“I’m going to order something from the deli down the street,” I said softly. “Any requests?”

Justin shook his head, his sheer exhaustion still apparent in the slow manner in which he did it. “I’m not hungry. I still sort of feel sick.”

“I know, but you should probably try to eat something. Chicken noodle soup? Or that greasy-ass grilled cheese you love so much? Hell, I’ll buy you cheesecake for dinner, and I won’t even hassle you about it. As long as you’ll eat a few bites.”

“Cheesecake sounds okay,” he mumbled, his eyes already closing.

“Cheesecake it is, then.” I managed to contain my chuckle as I left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen, already working on our Doordash order on my phone. I opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, twisting off the lid and taking a swig as I perused the different cheesecake options. Ultimately, I chose the cherry cheesecake, knowing that was Justin’s favorite, and I’d probably be able to convince him fairly easily to eat a few bites.

I ordered a pint of chicken noodle soup, too, for good measure, and a sandwich for myself, though by that point I didn’t feel much like eating either. I was too worried about Justin, still wondering what exactly had taken place on the subway that had brought Justin’s old anxieties bubbling up again. I knew he still didn’t like crowded spaces, but he’d just hold my hand a little tighter in those situations, usually -- giving me a nonverbal signal that he was uneasy, while at the same time grounding himself. This had to be more than that, I was sure of it, but I also knew that Justin probably wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

Still, it made me wonder if it might happen again -- if the anxiety attacks that had plagued him for months after the bashing were somehow making a return, triggered by some event as-yet unbeknownst to me. I hoped for Justin’s sake that this was a one-off incident, but even if it wasn’t, we’d deal with it together.

The sound of the doorbell brought me back out of my thoughts, and I tilted up my beer bottle one more time only to discover it was empty, and I didn’t remember finishing it. I answered the door and brought the food into the kitchen, stashing the soup and the sandwich I still wasn’t hungry for in the fridge, before grabbing a fork and a napkin and heading down the hallway to our bedroom, cheesecake in-hand.

Justin was curled up on his side in our bed, hugging a pillow tightly to his body, with his face pressed into it. His deep and steady breathing told me he was sleeping soundly, and I didn’t have the heart to wake him -- choosing instead to let the cheesecake join the rest of our dinner in the fridge, and to turn out the lights and climb into bed with my husband.

I still hadn’t had a chance to tell him that I’d found the perfect office space for Kinnetik, right on Madison Avenue. Working in the middle of the advertising and shopping mecca was something I’d dreamed of doing since I graduated from college, and making it happen felt huge, but it could wait. It could all wait. Right then, all that was important was being with Justin -- physically and emotionally.

When I crawled under the duvet, Justin gravitated toward me almost immediately, snuggling himself into my side. I wrapped an arm around him and pulled him in closer, then leaned down to kiss his temple, grateful that he was safe and warm and in my arms, all thanks to the kindness of a random woman he’d met on the subway.

I kept the bedside lamp on, taking in the peaceful expression on my husband’s face as he slept -- some much deserved and much needed rest. Just that simple action of watching him brought back a torrent of memories -- of standing outside his hospital room watching him toss and turn and feeling responsible for his pain, of holding him in the bed at the loft as he cried and shook after he awoke from one of his many nightmares, of reassuring him that everything was okay, even when it felt like nothing would ever be okay again. Reminding him that I was there for him. Showing him how much I loved him, long before I admitted it to myself or managed to say the words.

I’d nearly dozed off myself when a sudden jerk of Justin’s body in my arms, coupled with a sharp gasp, startled me back to full consciousness. Justin’s muscles were tense, and his breath quickened for a moment as he looked around, at first with a slight sense of alarm, then with the calming realization that he was home, in bed, with me. Safe.

We’d been there before. Many, many times. I just hated that we’d found ourselves back there again.

But Justin Taylor was the strongest, most stubborn motherfucker I’d ever known, and I knew we’d get past it again, too. Together. This time, as true partners.

“Everything okay?” I asked quietly, running a reassuring hand up and down Justin’s bicep as I felt his body relax in my arms, just as quickly as it had tensed only seconds before.

He took in a deep breath and nestled himself deeper into my side, letting out a contented sigh on the exhale, his lips turned up into the tiniest smile.

“Perfect.”