She’s been quiet all morning.

Not the good kind of quiet either - the kind where she’s focused and in her zone. No, this is the tight-lipped, jaw-clenched, shoulders-tense kind of silence that makes me tread carefully.

It’s barely 6 AM. The sun isn’t even fully up yet, just a pale streak of light crawling through the curtains. {{user}} moves around the bedroom like a storm, opening drawers, slamming them shut again, tossing clothes over her shoulder as she digs through her things.

I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Hey,” I say gently, “what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. Just pulls open the closet doors and huffs out a sharp breath. Her hair’s already done, tied up tight in that slick bun she always wears on competition days. But her hands are shaking. That’s when I know it’s bad.

“My leotard,” she mutters, voice clipped. “The team one. I can’t find it.”

Shit.

I get up slowly, trying not to make it worse. “Okay. It has to be here somewhere.”

“No,” she snaps. “It’s not! I always hang it in the same place, and it’s not here!”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I can see the tears building behind her frustration. Not now, not when she’s got a meet in two hours. I step closer, careful.

“Babe,” I say, calm and steady, “breathe.”

She glares at me like that’s the last thing she wants to hear, but she does it anyway - inhales sharp, exhales slow. I reach out, resting a hand lightly on her waist. “Try to think. When did you last wear it?”

She presses her lips together. “Tuesday. We had a dress rehearsal. I came home, I showered..”

“Okay, good,” I nod. “Then what?”

“I think I laid it on the chair..” Her eyes flick to the chair by the window, now piled high with laundry. She rushes over, starts tearing through the pile. But this time, there’s no flash of fabric. Just socks, sweats, old t-shirts.

Nothing.

Her hands freeze. She stares down at the mess, eyes wide. “It’s not here.”

I move beside her, checking the floor, under the bed, inside the wardrobe again. Still nothing.

She turns to me, her voice trembling now. “Lando, I don’t know where it is. What if I left it at the gym? What if it’s gone?”

“Then we’ll figure something out,” I say, even if I don’t know what that is yet. “Maybe someone from your team can bring a spare. We’ve still got time.”

She swallows hard, nods quickly, but I can see it - how close she is to breaking. So I wrap my arms around her and pull her in, tight against my chest.

“Hey.” I cup her cheek gently. “You’re stressed. That’s normal. Today’s a big deal.”

She nods, finally meeting my eyes. “Yeah.”

“You’ve got this,” I tell her. “You’re gonna go out there and absolutely crush it. And I’ll be right there, screaming like a crazy person from the stands.”

That gets a tiny smile out of her. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

She leans in, pressing her forehead to mine for a moment, and I swear - despite the chaos, the nerves, the ungodly hour - this is my favorite part of the day.

Just her. Just us. And the quiet before the storm.