The panic didn't come right away.
That was the cruel part.
Hilary stood in front of the restroom mirror, hands braced against the marble counter, breathing slowly—methodically—exactly the way her therapist had taught her.
In.
Four counts.
Out.
Six.
Her reflection stared back at her.
A woman.
Hair pinned perfectly.
Lipstick intact.
Eyes calm.
She looked… normal.
Too normal.
"That's me," she whispered, forcing the words out loud.
The reflection did not respond.
Her stomach twisted.
She leaned closer, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar.
Nothing clicked.
The face in the mirror could have belonged to anyone.
Her heartbeat picked up.
No.
Not yet.
She turned away from the mirror, splashed cold water on her wrists, grounding herself in sensation.
Cool.
Sharp.
Real.
You're safe, she told herself.
You made it through the dinner.
You didn't fall.
You didn't embarrass him.
Her chest tightened at the thought of Gerard.
She reached for her phone instinctively—
then froze.
What if she dialed the wrong number?
The thought alone sent a tremor through her fingers.
She clenched her hands into fists.
Get it together.
She stepped into a restroom stall and locked the door behind her.
The click echoed too loudly.
Her breathing changed.
The air felt thinner.
She sat down slowly, elbows on knees, head bowed.
Just a moment, she told herself.
Just reset.
But her body didn't listen.
Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Too fast.
Her palms grew slick.
The room tilted.
No—
not the room—
her sense of space collapsed inward.
She couldn't tell how big the stall was anymore.
Where the walls ended.
Where she began.
Someone laughed outside.
The sound pierced her like glass.
Her breath hitched.
Oh no.
No no no.
Not here.
Not now.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal divider, trying to anchor herself.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I'm here. I'm here."
The words sounded wrong.
Too distant.
Her vision blurred—not fading, not darkening—
fragmenting.
The way it did when her brain stopped cooperating.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She couldn't smell Gerard anymore.
The thought struck like lightning.
Where is he?
Her chest seized.
What if she walked out and couldn't find him?
What if someone stood in front of her and spoke in his voice?
What if—
Her throat closed.
Air wouldn't go in.
Her fingers clawed at her blouse, desperate for oxygen that felt suddenly unavailable.
Panic surged, full and merciless.
She slid down until she was sitting on the restroom floor, back against the stall door, knees pulled tight to her chest.
Her breathing shattered into shallow gasps.
"I can't—" she tried to say.
The words broke apart.
Tears spilled without warning.
Hot.
Humiliating.
Uncontrollable.
She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from making a sound.
But her body betrayed her.
A sob tore free.
Then another.
Her head filled with images that weren't images at all—just impressions.
Arms reaching.
Faces leaning close.
Hands grabbing her wrist.
Bianca's perfume.
Cedar—wrong.
Too sweet.
Too sharp.
Her stomach lurched.
She gagged, barely managing to swallow it back.
"I don't know who you are," she whispered to no one. "I don't know who anyone is."
The stall door rattled lightly.
Someone tried the handle.
"Occupied," a voice said.
Hilary flinched violently.
The voice echoed inside her skull, multiplying, distorting.
Her nails dug into her arms.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
She squeezed her eyes shut, rocking slightly, trying to find the thread that always brought her back.
Texture.
Count.
Name.
Cold tile beneath her palms.
Fabric of her skirt.
Soft.
Real.
Her name.
"H—Hilary," she forced out.
Her voice sounded foreign.
She hugged herself tighter, rocking harder now.
Time lost shape.
Seconds stretched.
Collapsed.
She didn't know how long she stayed there.
But eventually—
someone knocked.
Not on the stall door.
On the restroom door itself.
Firm.
Controlled.
Familiar.
"Hill."
Her breath stuttered.
That voice.
Low.
Steady.
Gerard.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
Her sob broke free, loud and raw.
"I'm here," she cried, terror and relief crashing together. "I'm here—please don't move."
"I won't," he said immediately. "I'm right outside. No one else."
She scrambled to her feet, legs shaking so badly she nearly fell.
"I can't open it," she whispered.
"That's okay," he replied. "Just stay where you are."
She fumbled with the lock, fingers numb.
The door swung open.
She stumbled forward blindly—
and stopped.
Her heart pounded.
What if—
"Blue ribbon," Gerard said softly.
Her knees buckled.
She reached out, fingers brushing fabric, skin—
warm.
Solid.
Her hands fisted in his jacket as she collapsed against his chest.
He caught her instantly, arms firm, grounding, unyielding.
She buried her face against him, breathing in deeply.
Cedar.
Paper.
Coffee.
Right.
Right.
Right.
"I lost it," she sobbed. "I was fine and then I wasn't and I thought—"
"I know," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steady against her spine. "I've got you."
She shook violently.
"I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't live like this."
"Yes, you can," he said quietly. "Because you're not doing it alone."
Her fingers tightened in his jacket like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.
"I scared myself," she admitted. "I didn't recognize… anything."
"That happens," he said gently. "It doesn't mean you're getting worse."
"It felt like I was dying."
He held her closer.
"I know," he said. "That's what panic does."
She cried harder at that.
Not because of fear—
but because he named it.
Because he didn't look shocked.
Or disappointed.
Or tired.
Just present.
When her breathing finally slowed, he guided her to sit on the small bench near the sinks.
He knelt in front of her, never forcing eye contact, just close enough that she felt him.
"Can you tell me what triggered it?" he asked softly.
She wiped her face with trembling hands.
"I couldn't smell you," she said. "For a second. And then my brain decided that meant I'd lost you."
His jaw tightened.
"That's important information," he said. "We'll adjust."
She stared at him.
"Adjust?" she echoed weakly.
"Yes," he replied. "We already have once. We'll do it again."
Her lips trembled.
"I hate this," she said.
"I know."
"I hate what it does to you."
He shook his head.
"It doesn't do anything to me," he said firmly. "It tells me where to stand."
Her chest ached.
"You shouldn't have to."
"I choose to," he replied without hesitation.
She inhaled shakily.
"What if it gets worse?"
"Then I get closer."
"What if I push you away?"
"Then I stay anyway."
Tears welled again—but this time, they didn't spill.
She nodded slowly.
"Okay," she whispered.
He helped her stand, keeping a steady hand at her back.
"Let's go home," he said.
"Yes," she agreed.
As they left the restroom, Bianca stood at the far end of the corridor.
Watching.
Hilary didn't see her.
But she felt it.
A prickle.
A warning.
She leaned closer to Gerard, voice barely audible.
"She knows," she said.
"Yes," he replied calmly. "And now she knows she can hurt you."
Hilary swallowed.
"That makes me weak."
"No," Gerard said, eyes forward. "That makes her desperate."
Bianca smiled politely as they passed.
Gerard didn't look at her.
Hilary didn't either.
But Bianca watched them go—
and understood.
The game had crossed a line.