sydney can’t breathe.

well, actually, that’s a little bit of an exaggeration. her heart rate is high, she’s sweaty, trembling. her breath is coming on in short spurts and she’s shaking. she can’t stop shaking. she’s not actually sure what brought it on, but one minute she was speaking with luca and carmy and the next she was sweaty.

the next thing she knew, she was pushing into the supply closet and hyperventilating.

she feels sick. she can’t— she can’t breath.

she slides down the walk, pressing a hand to her head. tries to remember the bullshit mindfulness methods she was taught in middle school. in for four, hold, out, right?

god she feels sick.

it doesn’t work. she spends about ten minutes in there, and to no avail, she continues to hyperventilate, shake and feel a horrible sense of impending doom and like she’s inevitably going to die.

and then the door opens.

her head snaps up, and there you are. eyes wide, confused.

sydney only met you tonight. an irish chef who moved to chicago and opened an irish bar and a restaurant. the two of you had hit it off — richie had joked that there was ‘immediate sparks’, and sydney had laughed him off. but she had felt the slight attraction, the banter and the hint of flirting.

but now she was here and you were here too, stepping in and shutting the door behind you, pulling your dress shirt sleeves up. “sydney?” you say softly, but firm, kneeling beside her.

she tries to talk, but all that comes out is a choked noise. she swallows and looks down at her trembling hands.