Salt and Jasmine
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 9: November - The Almost Leaving
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 9: November - The Almost Leaving - Salt and Jasmine is a raw, sensual lesbian romance set in a cliffside lighthouse cottage. Through one pivotal year of storms, panic attacks, art, and jasmine-heavy nights, Susan and Nawana turn fear into fierce, unwavering love. Tender and explicit, it follows two women learning that staying—scarred, terrified, and wholly seen—is the bravest act of all. A luminous celebration of choosing each other, every single day, until staying becomes home.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Fiction Tear Jerker Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Squirting Caution Nudism
The panic attack arrived without warning on a night that should have been ordinary.
They had spent the day in companionable quiet: Nawana in the studio wrestling with a canvas that refused to behave, Susan at the kitchen table, finally finishing the chapter she had been circling for weeks. The cats slept in sunbeams. The sea was flat and silver, the kind of calm that usually settled them both.
Dinner was soup and thick slices of sourdough. They ate on the porch, wrapped in the same blanket, watching the last light bleed from the sky. Everything felt safe.
Then it wasn’t.
Nawana stood to carry the bowls inside, and the world tilted.
It started as a flutter behind her ribs, a sudden, sick lurch like missing a step on the stairs. Then her chest tightened, breath shortening to shallow sips that didn’t reach her lungs. The porch spun. The bowls slipped from her fingers and shattered on the boards.
Susan was up in an instant. “Nawana?”
Nawana couldn’t answer. She was on her knees among the broken ceramic, hands pressed to her sternum as if she could physically hold her heart inside her body. Tears streamed down her face.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasped. “Susan, I can’t—”
Susan dropped beside her, gathering her close, one hand already at the nape of Nawana’s neck. “You can. You are. Look at me, love. Eyes on me.”
Nawana’s wild gaze found hers. Susan breathed (slow, deliberate, four counts in, four counts hold, four counts out). She kept her own panic locked down tight.
“Match me,” she said calmly. “In for four. Hold. Out for four. With me.”
It took minutes that felt like hours. Nawana’s body shook so hard that Susan felt it in her bones. Dry heaves wracked her between sobs. Susan kept breathing, kept counting, kept holding on.
Eventually, the vice in Nawana’s chest loosened. The tears slowed. She sagged forward, forehead against Susan’s collarbone, breath ragged but real.
Susan didn’t move until Nawana’s hands unclenched from fists and wrapped around her waist instead.
When she could speak, Nawana’s voice was shredded.
“I thought I was dying.”
“You weren’t,” Susan said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
Nawana started to cry again (quieter now, exhausted).
“I’m so tired of this,” she whispered. “I’m tired of being broken.”
Susan’s arms tightened. “You’re not broken. You’re having a panic attack. There’s a difference.”
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