“No.” The anguished sound cut through Bailey’s dream, and he knew as soon as he woke up that something was wrong. Sometime in the night, their bodies had drifted closer, and he had an arm and leg over Landon. Oh fuck. Bad move. Before he could roll off, Landon wrenched away from him to sit on the edge of the bed, gasping for air.

“Landon, it’s me. Bailey.” He wasn’t sure whether Landon was even fully awake, and he didn’t reach for him, trying to give him all the space that apparently his sleeping self had not. Not sure whether it would help or not, he flipped on the bedside lamp so Landon could see that he was in his own room.

“Fuck.” Landon’s breath came in shallow pants. He was shaking like a wobbly fidget spinner. “Can’t breathe. Elephant on my chest.”

“Does that feeling happen when you have panic attacks?”

“Yeah.” Wrapping his arms around himself, Landon squished his eyes shut and rocked from side to side. “Not. Dying. But feels like it. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Do you have meds I could get you?”

“You…can…go. I can…deal.” Landon’s teeth chattered.

“Like hell I’m leaving you.” Bailey was offended at the suggestion. Careful not to touch Landon overly much, he draped the blanket over his shoulders. “First, you’re my ride, and second, I’m not abandoning you during a panic attack. Tell me where the meds are.”

“Bathroom. Cabinet behind the mirror. Prescription bottle.”

Bailey found the bottle, same medicine that his dad took, and got Landon a cup of water while he was at it. Crouching in front of Landon, he offered both. He hated how helpless he felt.

“It’s my fault,” he said as Landon swallowed a pill. “I always sprawl in my sleep. And I am so, so sorry. I’d never intentionally crowd you. Shit. I should have slept on the couch.”

“No you shouldn’t have.” Landon’s laugh was a harsh bark. He was still shaking and rocking himself, but his speech was getting more coherent. “I should be able to sleep with…someone I like without freaking out. Fuck. I hate this. And it’s not the first time—it’s why I don’t usually do sleepovers. Can’t control my reactions at night as well.”

“It’s okay. I’m not mad, I promise.”

“You should be.” Landon squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck. My stupid body. Always ruins stuff.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Bailey really wished he had some sort of magic shrinking potion. Even crouching like this, he felt too big and lumbering. And it didn’t matter what Landon said, this was his fault. Clumsy even in your sleep, idiot. Tentatively, he reached out, patted Landon’s knee.

“Don’t.” Landon scooted farther back on the bed, away from Bailey’s reach. Fuck. He’d done the wrong move again. Couldn’t even help right. Bailey thumped his hand against his thigh, powerlessness swamping him.

“Do you want me to go downstairs? Give you some space?” Bailey wasn’t sure what else to offer. He wanted to hold Landon, tell him that everything would be okay, but only if those things would actually help.

“Yeah.” Landon still wasn’t looking at Bailey. “I’m gonna shower. That helps. Sometimes. I might…uh…be a while.”

“Take your time.” Bailey hated leaving Landon there on the bed, but he wanted to honor Landon’s needs. He needed to trust Landon to know what could help, and if that wasn’t Bailey, then he needed to deal.

He grabbed his pants and headed downstairs. He could use a shower too, but he wasn’t going to worry about that right now. His first priority was making sure Landon would be okay. Both cats looked reproachfully at him, like they too knew he’d fucked up. He pulled his pants on while the large gold one, Thor, looked on like he might enjoy using Bailey’s sensitive bits as a scratching post. The other cat scampered up the stairs, hopefully to do a better job comforting Landon than Bailey had.

Tea usually helped his dad once the meds kicked, so Bailey headed to the kitchen. However, in addition to the Snapple addiction, Landon owned a cluttered cupboard with at least fifteen varieties of tea. Fuck. No way to know what he might like, and Bailey sure as heck wasn’t going to bother him to ask. At least he could plug in the electric kettle and set out mugs.

Above him, he heard the shower go on as he headed back to the sofa. It was three in the morning, so he couldn’t really wake his dad, ask him what else he could do to help Landon. Fuck. He hated this. He didn’t have the attention span for anything on the TV nor was there any way he was going to doze off, so he searched “ways to help panic attacks” on his laptop and scrolled around aimlessly and tried not to watch the clock.

Finally, carrying Loki, Landon came down the stairs, dressed in a pair of flannel pants and sweatshirt with a towel around his neck.

“How are you now? Feel up to some tea?” Bailey didn’t ask if he was better—he knew from his dad that these things were often a matter of degree and that the after-effects from a panic attack could linger.

“Yeah. I could have some tea.” Landon headed to the kitchen. It was a tiny space, so Bailey stayed on the couch. “You want a cup?”

“Whatever flavor you’re having.” Bailey hated how weird and stilted things were and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Here.” Landon returned with two steaming mugs. He handed Bailey his before sitting on the rug, both cats immediately hopping into his lap. “I can run you back to your parents’ after the tea. I’ve driven on the meds before.”

Fuck. Landon wanting him gone hurt. “I’m fine on the couch. Really. You should try to rest. My mom will be up around seven. I’ll text her then, get a ride. But I’d like to stay. Help. Talk. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” Landon released a shaky breath. “Okay, maybe not fine, but I’ll get there. I don’t want to ruin the rest of your weekend. Honestly, I’m probably going to end up sleeping most of the day, especially if I don’t have to drive.”

“You should rest.” He took a sip of the tea, trying not to wince at the astringent, grassy flavor. “I’ll get a ride from Mom if being alone is what would help the most. But I don’t want you feeling bad or something. I’m not upset. At all. If anything, I’m the one who should be feeling guilty.”

“It’s not your fault. It was probably inevitable.” Landon sighed, sounding resigned. “But, hey, at least we know now, right? Maybe…we can still be friends. If you want that.”

“Of course I want to be your friend. No matter what. This doesn’t change that. But I also want to be more. I l—really like you. A lot. We fit well. A panic attack doesn’t change that, not for me.”

“You’re going back to Oregon soon. Friends is probably best. You don’t need to be tied to this…” Landon made a vague gesture. “No sense in doing long-distance then having me freak out when we’re in person next time. It’s better this way.”

“No, it’s not.” Fuck, this was the absolute worst time to be confessing this, but Bailey couldn’t hold the words back. “And it wouldn’t have to be long-distance. I was going to tell you, but I’ve got a job offer at the place where Rachel works in Burbank. We could try for something real. But take our time, go as slow as you need.”

“No.” Landon’s tone was firm, and he set aside his tea. “You can’t do that. You have a whole life in Portland. We’ve only known each other a little over a month. You can’t move for me. Don’t do it.”

Little razors sliced into every soft place in Bailey’s chest, but he took a breath, managed to keep his voice level. “At first, I was going to only do it if you were cool with it. But I really want this job. It’s not fair to me to not take it just because you’re afraid of what we’ve got here. What we could have. And we don’t have to sort it out right now. You’ve had a rough night. We can talk more after you rest. I’m not giving up on this, on you, on us.”

“I’m not afraid. Just a realist. And you’re right that you have to think about what’s fair to you. Take the job if that’s what you really want. But it’s not fair for me to ask you to try a relationship with me—you deserve more than what I can offer. I can’t have you lay on me. Can’t bottom. Can’t sleep in the same bed. You’re a great guy, but I’ve got too many limitations.”

“I seriously don’t care about any of that.” Bailey was working hard to not get angry, but some of his frustration leached into his voice. “Everyone has limitations. And I can’t change the fact that I’m a big guy, even though I’d give anything not to make you nervous, but I also can’t change how I feel about you. I like you. I like us together. I’d rather have you in my life—limitations and all—than to never try, never see what we could become.”

“I…I’m not sure I want to try.” Landon’s words sliced Bailey further open, killed the last of his hope and optimism about their chances of working this out. “I’m sorry. I want you as a friend too much to risk ruining that because I just can’t make a relationship with you work. I’d rather not try, rather stop before anyone gets hurt.”

“Too late,” Bailey muttered.

“See?” Landon shook his head. “I never should have added sex to the mix, shouldn’t have thought I could do this. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know. And maybe this isn’t the time to make any decisions about our future.” Bailey tried for soothing, but his voice came out more desperate than calming.

“I had a panic attack. Not a head injury,” Landon snapped. “You do what you need to as far as the job. But trust me to do what I need to for me. For us, even if you can’t see that right now.”

“Fine.” Bailey couldn’t keep this up without getting angry, and that wasn’t what this situation needed. “You do what you need to. And right now, maybe we both need to sleep. I don’t want to fight. And yes, I want to be your friend. And as your friend, I want you to take care of yourself. Go rest. If I’m really not what you need or want, I’ll respect that.”

Saying the words made his throat feel like he’d accidentally swallowed developer fluid, a caustic burn all the way down. But he wanted to respect Landon’s boundaries, not push, even if he disagreed mightily. They could make this work. He believed that with every fiber of his being. He believed in them. But he needed Landon to do the same, needed Landon to be willing to trust. He couldn’t make Landon take the risk. And fuck, maybe Bailey shouldn’t be fighting so hard for this—he really didn’t want to make things worse for Landon, didn’t want him to have to deal with more panic attacks. Maybe the kindest thing he could do was also the hardest. He needed to let Landon go.

* * *

Landon woke up with the sun in his eyes. He was the sort of sweaty that only came from sleeping too many weird hours, brain fuzzy for the same reason. But his heart was wide-awake, and he knew even before he went downstairs that Bailey was gone.

Thor greeted him at the bottom of the stairs, doing the whole you-left-me-starving dance, while Loki occupied the now-empty couch, sprawled on the blanket Landon had fetched for Bailey before escaping back upstairs. He credited the meds and adrenaline drop with enabling him to sleep—otherwise he probably would have rehashed his conversation with Bailey for hours.

He fed the cats and made himself some cereal even though he wasn’t hungry. He knew from past experience that not eating would make another panic attack more likely. But cereal reminded him of Bailey and the long conversation they’d had one night on messenger about favorite flavors and the virtues of cereal as dinner food.

Don’t think about him, he lectured himself as he took his bowl to the couch. As he sat down, his foot hit something sticking out from under the couch. Bailey’s camera bag. Fuck. He had to have left in a real fog not to have grabbed it along with his laptop backpack. And that would be your fault, idiot.

He’d hurt Bailey, no question about that. It had been clear from how Bailey’s face had crumpled when Landon said he didn’t want to try, Bailey’s blue eyes turning dark and sad, and from how Bailey’s voice had shook like he fighting a losing battle to keep it level. Just one more way the guy had tried so hard to be patient with him—he’d been upset, probably angry even, but he hadn’t raised his voice and had still tried to focus on giving Landon what he needed.

Better guy than you deserve, that’s for sure. He was kind and giving and sexy and understanding, and he’d meant it when he’d said he wanted to try a real relationship with Landon. But Landon couldn’t give him that, couldn’t make him promises, couldn’t even give the guy an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to be happy for Bailey’s good news about the job—he’d been too busy being terrified to be a good friend. Bailey deserved better than his mall photo studio gig, but Landon hated the idea of him moving back here, hoping for something Landon couldn’t give him.

And the least Landon could do was give him his camera back. Throat too tight to eat, he set the cereal aside and grabbed his phone.

You left your camera here. I’ll drop it by your mom’s place this afternoon if that’s okay? Landon didn’t know what else to type. I’m sorry was far too inadequate, and inquiring how Bailey was doing felt intrusive, like he’d lost the right to need to know Bailey’s well-being.

Bailey’s response came while Landon was continuing to stew over what he should have typed. Just realized that actually. I’d appreciate you bringing it by. Hope the rest helped. Feel free to copy off any pictures from yesterday that you might like.

It was the sort of response that seemed to invite a response, a cautious overture, but Landon wasn’t sure how to respond. Had the rest helped? He no longer felt like he’d been smacked by one of the campus shuttles, so maybe. But inside he was hollow, scraped raw, no more defenses against the emotions that kept washing over him.

I’m okay, he typed, because Bailey deserved some sort of answer. I’ll text when I’m on my way with the camera.

Message sent, he opened the camera bag, carefully removed the camera. Bailey had said he could have the pictures from yesterday, and some masochistic streak had him popping the memory card into his laptop so that he could copy the photos.

The memory card still had the pictures from Friday night on it—all Bailey’s relatives having a great time. He was struck by one of Bailey’s parents, arms around each other, mother with a wide, welcoming smile, father with a more reserved expression. How did they make it work? She was outwardly social and gregarious while the dad held back more, a quiet presence. How did they cope with his panic attacks? He would never have guessed it was an issue had Bailey not mentioned it. Bailey said they’d been together almost forty years, so clearly they had some sort of secret. Landon’s longest relationship was a couple of months, and even that had been fraught with stress.

Would it be different with Bailey? He’d never know and that made him need to swallow hard. His own parents were terrible role models for healthy relationships, but he envied Bailey’s parents their longevity. He wished that was in the cards for him, that he was different, that he could offer Bailey what his parents had.

Bending closer to the laptop, like that might help him uncover the mystery, he scrolled forward, past all the photos of Savannah and Rachel. He’d counseled Savannah to be brave and take a risk. Why couldn’t he do the same? She was so worried about being hurt again that it was evident in her posture—the way she held herself back from Rachel, the stiff set to her jaw. Maybe you’re both afraid of failure.

He knew that was part of it. He didn’t want to try and then endure the inevitable hurt when he couldn’t be what Bailey needed, what he deserved. How bad would it hurt if Bailey moved on? How badly does not trying hurt? His back ached from the position, but it was nothing compared to the soul-deep pain pervading every thought. He missed Bailey, more than he’d thought possible. It had been a little over a month since their first email. It shouldn’t feel like he’d lost an arm or erased years’ worth of data with a single fearful swipe, but still he couldn’t shake the sense of loss.

The next pictures were the ones Bailey had taken of him in the cactus garden. Prickly, uncuddly things were such a spot-on a metaphor for his life that he had to laugh. But once he was done laughing, he looked, really looked at the pictures. Like with the pictures from the library photo shoot, Bailey somehow managed to capture the best of him. He made him look taller. More confident. In-charge. Mythical almost. But more than that—Bailey made him look likeable. Maybe even lovable. Which was a weird thing to get from a photograph, but it was as if the camera was smiling at him, a kind of affection coming through in the way Bailey had framed the shots, in what he focused on.

Bailey made him look like the kind of guy he wanted to believe he was. In the years since his assault, he’d had a lot of therapy focusing on feeling worthy and deserving of good things. He’d struggled with feeling damaged in some essential way, but Bailey’s pictures showed a survivor. A fighter. He wanted to be that person. If Bailey saw someone strong, someone worth caring for, Landon wanted to prove that Bailey’s vision wasn’t wrong.

The guy in those pictures wouldn’t let Bailey go, wouldn’t shy away from risk. Now if only Landon could figure out how to be that person.