When he maneuvered the pick-up into an empty space and shut off the ignition, the death grip which remained on the steering wheel didn’t, or shall I say, couldn’t, have gone unnoticed. Knuckles bloodless, his shoulders raised amid the expansion of his chest as he heaved the entire worlds oxygen supply into his body. “Hey,” voice husky and broken, I attempted to pull him from whatever musing was making his jaw work ferociously, and discharge the wheel from his python-like constriction. Once I registered that words alone weren’t persuasive enough to reel him back, I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid across the bench a little. Hand hovering over his stretched forearm as his fingers connected with the wheel, I mentally braced myself as I lowered it, and grasped his leather-clad arm. That worked. Carefully watching him as he leisurely peeked down to the form of connection, he followed up my arm, to my shoulder, neck and face.
