She laughs quietly. No humor in it. “It is when you used to be able to handle this stuff without blinking.”
That stops me.
“Used to?”
She keeps her eyes on the counter. “Crowds. Fans. People yelling my name.” Her fingers tighten around the mug. “I toured for years without it phasing me. I did meet-and-greets. I walked red carpets. I smiled through chaos.”
Her voice dips. “Now my doctors call it ‘stress response.’ Like that explains anything.”
I don’t interrupt.
She swallows. “It makes me feel weak.”
There it is.
Not fear. Shame.
“I’m not weak,” she adds quickly, like she needs me to know. “I know that. Intellectually. I just…” Her shoulders lift, then fall. “I can’t control it.”
I take a step closer without realizing I’ve decided to. I stop a careful distance away. Close enough to be present. Far enough not to crowd.
“Your body learned something,” I say.
She looks up at me then, startled. “What?”
“How to protect you.”
She frowns, processing.
“I’ve seen men twice your size freeze when they’re overwhelmed,” I continue. “I’ve seen guys who look invincible shut down because something hit too close to home.” I keep my voice steady. “Your nervous system isn’t broken. It adapted.”
Her eyes shine. Just a little.
“I don’t want to be someone who needs saving,” she says softly.
The words land heavy.
I shake my head. “That’s not what this is.”
“What is it, then?” she asks.
I hold her gaze.
“This is you standing back up,” I say. “Even when your knees want to buckle under you.”
She nods once. Just once.
The moment stretches. Quiet. Charged.
Neither of us moves.
And I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. Of the way her breath has evened out.
Her mouth parts, just slightly, like she might say something. Or like she might not. The difference feels dangerous.
I tilt forward before I can stop myself. Not fast. Not dramatic.
Close enough that my breath changes. Close enough that her eyes flick to my mouth.
