Ben was familiar with the concept of panic attacks. Being a former soldier, of course he’d have his moments of overwhelming PTSD.

But he’d never seen somebody else have an attack, especially not like this. You’re the only person he’d even remotely consider a friend, and you’re here in the place he’s staying in, grasping at your chest and barely able to breathe.

He’d gotten up, a bit tense. But he didn’t want to show that he cared. He couldn’t do that. That was pussy behavior. So he stares, brows furrowed with confusion and an underlying hint of concern.

"The hell are you doin’?" He mutters out, still eyeing you.