CHAPTER 5: PANIC ATTACK

Ethan's POV

Noah didn't answer. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath shorter than the last. His hand stayed locked around the edge of the bench like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Noah." I kept my voice low and steady. "I need you to please look at me."

His eyes refused to obey my voice. They stayed fixed on something I couldn't see.

Shit. This is bad… I thought and set my camera bag down carefully, like he was a wild animal I didn't want to startle. Then I took a step closer.

"Hey." I stopped a few feet away, close enough to reach him but not to crowd him. "You're in the training room Noah. You're at home."

His breathing hitched. A small sound escaped his throat… something between a gasp and a choke.

"I'm going to touch your arm," I whispered softly. "Is that okay?" When he didn't pull away or tell me to stop, I reached out and placed my hand on his forearm. His skin was cold, and his muscles were locked so tight that they felt like stone.

"Okay," I coaxed him quietly. "Okay. I've got you."

I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't a therapist nor was I trained for this. But I knew what it felt like to be trapped inside your own body with no way out.

"Can you breathe with me?" I asked. "Just follow what I do."

I took a slow breath in, held it, then let it out. Noah's breathing didn't change at first. His chest kept heaving, his grip on the bench kept tightening, and for a terrible moment I thought he might actually collapse.

Then, slowly, his next breath came a little slower. Then the next one after that.

"That's it," I praised him, with a light smile. "You're doing it. Keep going."

His eyes finally moved. They drifted toward me, unfocused at first, like he was seeing me through water. Then they sharpened. His breathing was still uneven, but the worst of it was passing.

"There you are, safe and fine." I smiled, heaving a breath of relief.

He blinked, then he looked at my hand on his arm. His expression changed from confusion, to realization, then horror.

He pulled his arm away and stepped back, nearly knocking into the bench behind him.

"What are you still doing here?" His voice was rough, scraped raw.

"You told me to leave, but…"

"I told you to leave." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. His cheeks were flushed now, color returning to them too fast. "Why don't you listen?"

"Because you were having a panic attack." I said plainly, without accusation.

"I wasn't." He replied coldly. I stared at him, with a lopsided smile.

"I wasn't," he repeated, but his voice cracked on the last word.

I didn't argue, I just stood there, watching him try to rebuild the walls I'd just seen collapse. It was pretty impressive, how quickly he pulled himself together… shoulders straightening, expression flattening, everything tucked neatly back behind the mask.

"I'm fine," he finally said. "You can go."

"Okay." I bent down and picked up my camera bag. "But for the record," I said, pausing at the door, "you don't have to pretend you're fine around me."

His eyes snapped toward me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I just watched you almost pass out in your own training room. And I'm not going to tell anyone." I shrugged. "So you can drop the act."

He stared at me for a long moment. Emotions flickering behind his eyes… surprise, maybe, or suspicion. Then it was gone.

"Get out.” He ordered, with a note of finality.

I nodded and left. But as I walked back down the hallway toward my room, I couldn't shake the image of him standing there, gripping that bench from my head.

Noah Ashford wasn't just hiding a secret. He was hiding something much bigger than a photograph.

And I was starting to realize that six months in this house was going to be a lot more complicated than I'd signed up for.

>>>>>>>>

I didn't go back to my room right away. Instead, I wandered into the kitchen, which I found on the second try and made myself a cup of tea. 

The kitchen was enormous, all marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, the kind of kitchen that belonged in a cooking show rather than a house where a single twenty-six-year-old hockey player lived.

I sat at the island and stared into my mug.

You don't have to pretend you're fine. Not with me.

I didn't know why I'd said that. It wasn't like me to offer comfort to strangers. I was here for the money, for the contract, for six months of pretending and then going back to my life.

But something about seeing Noah like that the way his hands shook, the way his eyes went somewhere I couldn't follow… had cracked something open in me.

I knew that look. I'd worn that look. When my dad left, I was eleven and came home to an empty house and a note on the kitchen table, I'd worn that look for months. 

When my mum got sick, I was sixteen and spent every night in a hospital chair, I'd worn it again. When the debt collectors started calling, when I was twenty-three and couldn't afford groceries, I'd worn it so often it felt like a second skin.

I knew what it meant to be drowning in plain sight.

And I knew what it felt like when no one noticed.

I took a sip of tea. It was too hot, I winced, but I didn't put the mug down.

Stop worrying Ethan, I told myself. He's not your problem.

But he was. Because I'd signed a contract and I'd agreed to pretend. For the next six months, Noah Ashford and I were going to be tied together in ways neither of us had chosen.

And if tonight was any indication, this arrangement was going to be a lot more complicated than either of us had planned.

My phone buzzed. Carla.

Carla: You alive?

I smiled faintly and typed back: Barely.

Carla: That bad?

Me: No. Not bad. Complicated.

Carla: Want to talk about it?

Me: Not yet.

Carla: Okay. But I'm here.

Me: I know. Thanks.

I had barely taken a third sip from my tea, when my phone rang. It was a call from Daniel.

I answered. “Hello Daniel?”

“Be ready by ten tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“Your first public appearance with Noah.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked, dropping my cup.

“Yes.”

I leaned against the banister. “Daniel, I moved into this house today.”

“That is exactly why by tomorrow, people need to see that you and Noah are comfortable together.”

“Comfortable? I nearly got lost trying to find the kitchen.”

“That isn't my concern.”

“Obviously.”

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. “Press conference at ten. Lunch with two sponsors afterward. Then a charity appearance. You'll also have several interviews.”

“Anything else?”

“Photos.”

“Of course.”

“And wear something suitable.”

“What does that mean?”

“You'll be told in the morning.” He answered and ended the call.

I lowered the phone, and drew a deep… …deep breath. This was going to be a long six months.