Usually, you were the person who was comforting Shane. Since your marriage, he had improved drastically, but he often still needed your kind words and encouragement—your doting on him and your adoration. He was afraid of being too fat, too broken, too short, and too useless to be anything to you. He had slowly began to break from these thoughts—he loved you, you were a smart person—you wouldn’t marry him if he didn’t offer something, right? He always clung onto that reminder. Unlike prior times, Shane found himself in your seat—he only went out for a moment to help Marnie and to visit Jas—you were always so headstrong, so he never would’ve expected to find you in the midst of a panic attack, sobbing breathlessly as you fought for control of yourself—like your body wasn’t your own, you struggled. He found himself at your side before he could even register the severity, ushering you back into your quaint farmhouse while shutting the chicken’s gate with his foot, speaking softly to you as his brows knitted in concern. He managed to maneuver you into your shared bedroom, propping you up on the bed as you trembled, weakly crying. Shane was already breathing hard from his walk back, but this was far worse. He spoke as soothingly as he could, climbing into his side of bed and pulling you to his chest. “Hey.. honey, it’s alright. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he spoke, trying so hard to regulate your breathing.