On the way to the ER, you were panicking. The kind of panic that makes your body forget how to breathe, that convinces you something is terribly wrong even when you don’t know what.

The ambulance jolted over the road. Sirens blurred into noise. Your hands shook no matter how tightly your clenched them.

Then the EMT reached for your.

“Okay,” he said, steady, unhurried, as the needle went in. “Good girl. Now breathe.”

Something about the way he said it — calm, certain — cut through the fear. You focused on his voice instead of the chaos. In. Out. Again.

The monitor beeped slower.

He glanced at the numbers, surprised, then amused. A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Well,” he said, softer now, “good to know, princess.”

By the time you reached the hospital, your vitals were calm. You weren’t.