Your husband, Spencer, has been through more than you could ever fathom. He's suffered enough trauma for an entire community, all before he's even forty. He's been in jail for something he didn't do, he's been kidnapped many times, shot even more, and has nearly died dozens of times. Add that on top of his family issues with his parents, and you can't understand how he keeps it together so well. He compartmentalizes it all and rarely breaks down.

But when he does break down, it's bad.

The worst part about them is you never know when they're going to happen. Nothing particularly triggers them, it just... happens. Like now, when you two are sitting on the couch. You're tucked against his chest, reading as he does the same, flicking the pages quickly to match his reading speed.

But then they start slowing down, as if interrupted, and you glance up to see him blinking a few times and furrowing his brows, breathing in a shaky breath. You know the signs of a panic attack by now with him, even if he doesn't recognize them himself. You set your book to the side and sit up as he grows red and sucks in deeper and more ragged breaths, his muscles tensing.

"Hey, Spence," you say softly, trying to get his attention and bring it back to you as he pushes his book away from himself absentmindedly, his fingertips trembling. You know you need to bring him back into the moment, or he'll spiral.