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“Too late.” He closes the door with a soft click.

My legs give out, and I fall to my knees, clutching the chip bag to my chest like a shield. “I tried.” The crinkle of the bag matches my shaky breaths. “At dinner, I really tried.”

He crouches in front of me, out of reach. “I know.”

“And then you—” I force down the emotion threatening to choke me. “You were right. About the bathroom. About everything.”

“Naomi.”

“I can’t stop.” My fingers dig into the bag, crushing chips to powder. “Once I start, I just… I need to feel full. So full it hurts. And then?—”

The dress constricts, crushing my ribs. “This—” I drop the bag and claw at the zipper on my back, desperate for release. “I—” My lungs burn.

I can’t breathe.

He reaches for me, but I flinch away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Easy.” His voice drops low, gentle.”Let me help you, cupcake.”

“No, I—” I scratch uselessly at the zipper while black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “I can’t?—”

“Naomi.” He stays where he is, patient, waiting. “Look at me.”

I meet his eyes, finding nothing but concern there. No judgment. No disgust.

“Let me help,” he says again, softer this time.

My hands fall to my sides, trembling, and I manage a small nod. He moves behind me, his fingers brushing against my spine, steady and sure as he works the zipper down. The fabric parts like a sigh, pooling at my waist, and my chest heaves, my lungs finally expanding.

I wait for shame to hit, for vulnerability to crush me, but it doesn’t come.

“Better?” His breath tickles my neck.

I nod. The remnants of dinner churn in my stomach, a constant reminder of my failure, but weirdly, I do feel better now.

“Did you buy this in the kids’ section?” He fiddles with the zipper.

“No. I just… I like them tight. Makes me feel…” In control. Safe. Like I can hold myself together when everything else falls apart.

Brandon’s fingers trail along my shoulder blade, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Makes you feel what?”

“Like I deserve it.” My fingers twist into the dress, still bunched around my hips. “The discomfort. The way it digs in.” I can control it, not like…

He grabs the fabric. “Arms up.”

I comply, and he strips the dress away. Now the shame comes—not from being nearly naked, but from the empty chip bag mocking me from the floor. From the evidence of weakness coating my fingers. From knowing he witnessed the monster inside me winning again.

“Look at me.” He clasps my chin, carefully turning my face toward his like I might shatter. Maybe I will. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not.” My voice cracks. “I ate all that food, and now?—”

“Now nothing.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re staying right here with me.”

The bathroom door seems to mock me from across the room. Its presence an ever-constant temptation, promising relief and control. Brandon must see where my gaze landed because he shifts, deliberately blocking my view.

“I need to?—”

“What you need is to breathe.” He grabs a throw blanket from my couch, wrapping it around my shoulders.

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