I'm halfway through the receipts when I realize I haven't seen Gemma in twenty minutes.
The stockroom door is closed but not latched. I push it open slowly, giving her time to hear me coming, and find her sitting on an overturned crate with her knees pulled up to her chest.
She's not crying. It's worse than that. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, her hands clenched into fists against her thighs, her eyes fixed on nothing. I've seen this before. Panic attack. The body remembering something the mind is trying to forget.
"Gemma." I keep my voice low, even. "I'm going to come a little closer. That okay?"
Her eyes flick to me, wild and unfocused, and she nods once. I move to the crate across from her and sit down, leaving threefeet of space between us. Close enough to be present, far enough that she doesn't feel trapped.
"You're safe," I tell her. "You're at the Ironside. Cole's out front. The doors are locked. Nobody's going to hurt you here."
Her breathing doesn't slow.
"Can you feel your feet on the floor?" I ask. "Press them down. Feel the concrete."
She does, and something in her posture shifts, anchors.
"Good. Now your hands. Open them up. Feel the air on your palms."
Her fingers uncurl slowly, trembling. She stares at them like they belong to someone else.
"You're doing great. Now tell me five things you can see."
The stockroom smells like cardboard and the faint sweetness of spilled beer that never quite comes out of concrete. Somewhere beyond the door, I can hear Nash laughing at something, the distant clink of glasses being stacked. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. I focus on keeping my breathing slow and even, hoping she'll mirror it without realizing.
"I..." Her voice comes out cracked. "Boxes. The shelf. Your boots. The light. The door."
"Four things you can hear."
"The music. The ice machine. Your voice. My heartbeat."
"Three things you can feel."
"The crate. My jeans. Cold air."
Her breathing starts to slow. The wild look in her eyes fades, replaced by exhaustion and shame.
"I'm sorry." She wipes her face with the back of her hand, though there are no tears. "I don't know what happened. I was fine, and then I just..."
"You don't have to explain." I stay where I am, hands resting on my knees, every line of my body telegraphing that I'm notgoing to move without her permission. "That guy was out of line. Anyone would be shaken."
"It wasn't just him." She shakes her head. "It's everything. It's always everything, all the time, and I can't make it stop."
The words hang in the air between us. I want to ask what she means. I want to ask about the husband, about the fear she carries, about everything she's not saying. But this isn't the moment, and I'm not the person she owes those answers to.
"You don't have to make it stop," I say instead. "You just have to get through it. One minute at a time. And you don't have to do it alone."
She looks at me then, really looks. Recognition, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
"Thank you." Her voice is steadier now. "For talking me through that. For earlier, with the customer. For all of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know." A ghost of that real smile flickers across her face. "I'm doing it anyway."
She stands, and I stand with her, and for a moment we're close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. I don't. I keep my hands at my sides and let her move past me toward the door.
"Will." She stops with her hand on the frame, not looking back. "I'm not ready to talk about it. Any of it. But I want you to know that I see what you're doing. The way you watch out for me. The way you don't push."
