Page 14 of Locked & Loaded

The whole thing is so fucking absurd I can’t help it.

The sound escapes before I can stop it, a choked half-laugh that keeps going until my shoulders start shaking. I press a hand to my forehead, trying to get myself under control, but it’s no use. The laughter keeps coming, shaky and breathless, while Mads watches me with confusion and something dangerously close to a smile.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Everything,” I say between breaths. “You. Me. This stupid compartment. You breaking a window because I’m having a meltdown. The fact that we’re probably going to get fined for train vandalism by morning. Everything.”

Mads doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

That gets another laugh out of me, smaller this time.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sobering a little even though I’m still smiling. “Thank you.”

He nods once. “No problem.”

“No, seriously. I might have passed out if you hadn’t done that.”

His face softens, just for a second. “Yeah. I noticed.”

The panic is gone, washed out of me by cold air and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. My skin cools. My breathing evens out. The sweat on my chest dries in the draft, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing.

I reach for my pants and pull them back on, then grab my damp T-shirt. The second it touches my skin, I regret every choice that brought me here, but I still feel too weak to dig through my duffel for a clean one, so I just sit there, shivering.

Mads notices.

He reaches into his duffel, pulls out a hoodie, and tosses it across to me without a word.

I catch it. I could point out that my jacket is right there. I could pretend I don’t understand what this is. But I do.

It’s a peace offering.

So I say, “Thanks,” and pull it on.

The fabric is soft and warm from his bag, and it smells like him—clean and faintly citrusy, the particular scent of Mads Holm I’ve spent three months trying not to notice. It’s a little too big, the sleeves falling past my wrists, the hem sitting loose over the waistband of my pants.

It should just be a hoodie. Something warm to stop me from shaking.

Instead, I’m breathing him in like an idiot.

We sit in silence for a minute, listening to the train and the rush of cold air through the broken vent. The compartment feels different now. It’s still the same small metal box, but my panic has receded enough that the walls are just walls again. The ceiling is just a ceiling. The locked door is still a problem, but not the kind that makes my throat close.

Mads leans back against the wall, one knee drawn up, and watches the night stream past the window. In the yellow overhead light, his profile is all angles and that permanent half-scowl, but softer now. Less guarded.

He catches me looking, and I turn toward the window, suddenly feeling stupid for staring.

Only then do I notice the snow.

Tiny flakes blow in through the hole in the glass, dusting the table and the floor.

“You could’ve told me,” Mads says after a moment.

I blink, turning to look back at him. “Told you what?”

“About the panic attack. Instead of letting me stand here yelling at you like a moron.”

I shrug. “I don’t like talking about it. I thought maybe it would pass. I haven’t had an episode like that in years.”

Mads looks at me. “Claustrophobia?”