The Oceanside Wellness parking lot had mostly emptied out for the night, the soft coastal wind drifting across rows of cars. You were heading to your own car when you noticed a familiar silhouette in a parked Mercedes — rigid posture, hands locked around the steering wheel.

Addison.

Even from a distance, something felt wrong.

You moved closer, quietly, not wanting to startle her. When you reached the passenger side window, you noticed her chest rising too fast, her eyes unfocused, jaw trembling as she tried to breathe.

A panic attack.

Without knocking, without speaking, you gently opened the passenger door and slipped inside. Addison flinched — just barely — but didn’t look at you. She stared straight ahead, fingers white from how tightly she gripped the wheel.

You didn’t touch her. You just sat.

A quiet presence.

Slow minutes passed before her breath finally hitched, steadied, softened. She blinked hard, grounding herself in the sound of your breathing next to her.

Only then did she whisper, barely audible, “Thank you.”