The restroom was too bright.
Not in light—
but in echoes.
Every sound multiplied.
The click of heels outside.
The rush of water from another sink.
A distant laugh drifting through the door.
Hilary stood frozen in front of the mirror.
The woman staring back at her was composed.
Elegant.
Untouched.
A liar.
Her hands gripped the edge of the sink.
"I'm fine," she whispered to the reflection.
The reflection did not respond.
Her chest tightened.
She tried to inhale.
Air went in—
but it didn't stay.
Her lungs rejected it like a foreign object.
"Okay," she muttered. "Okay, okay…"
She turned on the faucet.
Cold water rushed over her fingers.
She focused on sensation.
Temperature.
Pressure.
Reality.
It didn't work.
The scent hit her again.
Floral.
Sharp.
Unwanted.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Too close.
She spun around.
No one stood behind her.
But the feeling remained—
that she was being watched.
Her vision tunneled.
The room tilted.
"I can't," she whispered.
Her knees buckled.
She barely caught herself against the wall,
sliding down until she was crouched on the tiled floor.
Her breathing fractured into short, useless gasps.
This isn't fear, her mind tried to reason.
This is just—
No.
This was terror.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
Her fingers clawed at the ribbon around her own wrist—
red.
Jessica.
Her daughter's anchor.
She pressed it to her lips.
"Breathe," she begged herself.
"Breathe like you taught her."
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
It didn't matter.
Her body refused command.
The door opened.
Hilary flinched violently.
"He—hello?" a woman's voice called hesitantly.
Hilary couldn't speak.
She pressed herself tighter into the corner.
The woman hesitated.
"Are you alright?" the voice asked.
Hilary shook her head, tears streaming silently.
"I—I think someone's not well in here," the woman said nervously, backing away.
The door closed.
Footsteps hurried off.
Shame burned hotter than fear.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
This is it, she thought.
This is where they decide I'm broken.
The door opened again.
This time—
the scent reached her first.
Cedar.
Paper.
Coffee.
Home.
Gerard.
He was already kneeling in front of her when she opened her eyes.
His hands hovered—not touching.
"I'm here," he said softly. "Can I touch you?"
She nodded desperately.
"Yes."
He placed one hand over her wrist—
blue ribbon.
Anchor.
The other rested flat against the floor beside her.
Grounding.
Solid.
"Look at me," he said gently.
She let out a broken laugh.
"You know I can't."
"Then listen," he said. "Just listen."
She clutched his sleeve.
"I can't breathe," she sobbed. "I can't make it stop."
"You don't have to," he replied calmly.
"I'll breathe for you until you can again."
He inhaled slowly, exaggerated.
She felt it through his arm.
Through the air.
"Follow me," he instructed. "In."
She tried.
Air shook into her lungs.
"Out," he said.
Her breath came out ragged—
but it came.
Again.
Again.
Slowly, painfully,
her body remembered how to obey.
She leaned forward suddenly,
pressing her forehead into his chest.
He didn't move.
Didn't rush her.
Didn't say *it's okay*.
He just stayed.
"I almost hugged the wrong man," she whispered.
"I know."
"I trusted my senses," she continued, voice breaking.
"And they betrayed me."
He lifted her chin gently,
forcing her to face where he was.
"Senses can be tricked," he said firmly.
"Love can't."
She shook her head weakly.
"What if I choose wrong again?"
"Then I'll stop you," he said without hesitation.
She laughed through tears.
"You can't watch me every second."
"No," he agreed.
"But I can stand where you fall."
Her sob broke fully then.
She clung to him.
"I don't want to be a burden," she cried.
"I don't want to ruin you."
His voice hardened—not with anger, but certainty.
"You are not ruining me," he said.
"You are the reason I know what's worth protecting."
She went still.
"You'll resent me," she whispered.
"Never."
"How do you know?"
"Because resentment comes from choice," he replied.
"And I'm choosing you—every time."
Silence settled.
Her breathing steadied.
The world slowly returned to its proper size.
After a while, she pulled back slightly.
Her face was blotchy.
Eyes swollen.
"Do I look terrible?" she asked faintly.
He smiled softly.
"You look alive," he said.
She nodded.
"That'll have to do."
He helped her stand carefully.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "But slowly."
He opened the door just enough to peek outside.
Clear.
He guided her out,
one step at a time.
As they left the restroom,
Hilary felt the weight of eyes again.
But this time,
she didn't shrink.
She leaned into Gerard's side.
Let them look, she thought.
Let them whisper.
Because she was still standing.
And somewhere near the mirror she had fled,
Bianca paused,
listening to the quiet echo left behind.
Her lips curved slightly.
Good, she thought.
Fear always leaves a scent.
They didn't go back to the ballroom.
Not immediately.
Gerard guided Hilary to a quiet lounge near the service corridor—
dim lights,
muted carpet,
no mirrors.
She sat on the edge of the sofa,
hands folded tightly in her lap.
Her breathing was steady now.
Her heart was not.
"I embarrassed you," she said softly.
Gerard didn't answer right away.
He crouched in front of her instead.
"You survived," he said. "That's not embarrassment."
She shook her head.
"They saw," she insisted.
"The pause. The panic. The way you had to—"
Her voice cracked.
"—save me."
He reached for her hands.
"I didn't save you," he corrected.
"I stayed."
She swallowed.
"That's worse," she whispered.
"It means you'll have to keep doing it."
"Yes," he said.
No hesitation.
No heroics.
Just truth.
She searched his face instinctively—
and found nothing.
The absence hurt more than the panic had.
"I hate that I can't see you when you say things like that," she admitted.
"I want to see if you're lying."
He smiled faintly.
"I've never needed your eyes to tell me when you trust me," he replied.
She laughed once, breathless.
"Then you're braver than I am."
He stood slowly.
"I'll walk half a step ahead," he said. "Not touching. Just close enough."
She nodded.
They moved like that through the corridor—
his presence announced by sound,
by warmth,
by the quiet consistency of his pace.
At the exit, she stopped.
"Gerard?"
"Yes."
"If one day I flinch again," she said,
"don't apologize for me."
"I won't," he promised.
"I'll make the world quieter instead."
Her throat tightened.
"Okay," she said.
They stepped outside.
Cool night air wrapped around her skin.
She inhaled deeply.
For the first time since the restroom,
the fear loosened its grip.
Behind them, the hotel lights glowed—
watchful,
curious.
Hilary leaned slightly toward Gerard.
Not because she was weak.
But because she chose to.
And somewhere inside the building,
Bianca noticed they didn't return to the crowd.
She filed it away.
Not as a failure.
As a delay.