I knew this was a bad fuckin’ idea the second we stepped out of the car.

Downtown was crawling. Flashbulbs going off like fireworks, some dickhead yelling my name like we were boys from way back, and already I could feel her fingers twitch against mine. Not in that cute, nervous way—nah, this was different. Tight. Clammy.

I should’ve turned us around. Said screw the sushi spot and called up that private chef she liked, the one with the neck tattoo and the weird obsession with microgreens.

But she looked so damn proud, standing there in that little black dress I bought her last week, hair up like she wasn’t two seconds from losing it. She wanted to try. She was trying.

Then the crowd surged.

And she cracked.

I heard it before I saw it—her breath hitching, that awful, thin sound like someone trying to suck air through a straw. Her grip slipped. Eyes went wide and glossy, like a deer on ice.

“Baby.” My voice cut through the noise, but it didn’t reach her.

Some reporter shoved a mic at her face. “How does it feel dating Canada’s golden boy?”

I stepped in fast, arm around her waist, other hand up like I was parting the damn Red Sea. “Back the fuck up.”

She was trembling. Not dramatic movie-style shaking. this was the real shit.

By the time we got in the car, she was gasping. Full-blown panic. Tears streaming.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay. I got you.” My voice cracked halfway through, and I didn’t even care. I pulled her onto my lap, pressed her face to my neck. “Just breathe with me, angel. Match me, yeah?”

She was trying. God, she was trying.

When we finally got home, I carried her inside, shoes off, lights low. Her breathing was still off. Still shallow.

But she let me hold her. Let me brush her hair back and whisper stupid shit like, “You’re safe,” and “I’ll punch every single one of those assholes in the throat.”