The second I step through the front door, I hear it—sharp, shallow breathing, the kind that shouldn’t be coming from her.

I find Braelie on the couch, curled in on herself, nails pressing into her palms like she’s trying to ground herself through sheer force. She doesn’t even register my presence at first. Her chest rises too quickly.

The fame, the cameras, the bullshit that comes with being mine.

I drop my bag by the door and close the distance between us in three strides. “Baby.”

She flinches, barely lifting her head. I crouch down in front of her, resting a hand on her knee. It’s like touching a live wire—her whole body is taut, like she might snap or shatter if I say the wrong thing.

“I can’t—” She gasps, voice thin, hands shaking harder. “I can’t breathe, Palmer.”

Panic attack.

Fuck.

I exhale through my nose and press my forehead against her knee. “Yeah, you can. You are.” My voice is low, steady, even as my stomach tightens at how wrecked she sounds. I take her hand, prying her fingers from the fists she’s made, and press her palm flat against my chest. “Feel that? That’s me breathing. You match me, sweetheart. Just match me, okay?”

She shakes her head, eyes glassy, unfocused. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” I squeeze her hand, bringing it up so I can press a kiss to her knuckles.

It takes a minute. Slowly, painfully, she starts following my rhythm.

There she is.

I don’t tell her she knew what she was getting into. I kept her a secret for so long that I forgot the ruthlessness in which the paparazzi acted in. How awful it was as a rookie and how rough it would’ve been for her.

That was an hour ago.

She was asleep now, lying on my chest in the comfort and safety of our bed with the Tronto City nightlights glimmering outside the tall, floor to ceiling windows the lined the entire penthouse. My mind fogs with thought, hand absently rolling through her locks as my heart beats in tandem with her breath.