“Fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry. God, I’m terrible...” He screws his eyes shut and makes a whining noise as he sits on the bed and leans over them, letting them be closer to him. It’s hard to take deep breaths but that’s what they always tell him to do, to breathe and think about safety. So he tries. He tries frantically to quiet his mind, slow down, to gain control over whatever it is his abilities are doing.
It’s a steep uphill battle. All he manages to do is unwind about half of the shadows from around Lee’s body and lighten up his influence on the room a few degrees. He feels the difference, though, and it’s difficult to maintain the change when his skin is flushed and the house is summer-warm to begin with.
“I’m sorry, neshomeh, I’m so sorry, I shoulda been there, I shoulda answered my fucking phone.”