TORI'S POV
I stood there watching Ethan's shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath. He hadn't seen me yet.
The conversation with his father had clearly shaken him—I'd never seen anyone talk to their kid that way.
"What just happened, Ethan?" I asked, making him jump.
He turned, his expression quickly shifting from vulnerable to guarded. "Nothing. Just my dad being my dad."
"That didn't look like nothing." I took a step closer. "You collapsed on the court and then he dragged you out here to yell at you?"
"It's fine." He started walking toward the student parking lot. "Don't worry about it."
I followed him, not sure why I cared so much. I should be heading back to my team. Should be keeping my distance after what happened last night. But something pulled me after him.
"Are you sick?" I asked, catching up to him. "Seriously, Ethan, you looked like you were having a heart attack back there."
He stopped dead in his tracks. Without turning around, he asked, "Why do you care?"
The question hung in the air between us. Why did I care?
After everything I'd done to maintain the wall between us, why was I chasing after him now?
"I just do," I said finally.
He turned to face me, eyes narrowed. "Don't you have a game?"
"It's been postponed." I shifted my weight nervously. "Can we talk?"
"About what?" His voice had an edge now. "About last night?"
I felt my face heat up instantly. God, why did he have to bring that up? "No. About what happened to you just now. I just want to know if you're fine."
For a second, I thought he was going to blow me off. His jaw was clenched, eyes stormy. But then something shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the ground.
"I'm not fine," he said so quietly I almost missed it.
The admission hit me harder than I expected. The invincible Ethan Harrington, not fine? Without thinking, I reached for his hand and pulled him away from the parking lot, away from where anyone might see us.
I found a quiet spot behind the science building—a bench under an oak tree where I sometimes ate lunch when I needed to be alone. We sat, neither of us speaking for a long moment.
"It's called panic disorder," he finally said, staring at his hands. "Started after my mom died."
"I didn't know your mom died," I said softly. "I'm sorry."
He nodded, still not looking at me. "Three years ago. Car accident. She was going to a meeting, asked me for a ride." His voice caught. "I said no because I had a match."
"Ethan..."
"She took the car anyway. There was a storm. She hydroplaned on the highway." He said it flatly, like he'd rehearsed the story many times. "The first panic attack happened at her funeral. Dad got me on medication, got me a therapist, and told me not to mention it to anyone."
"That's awful," I said, my heart aching for him in a way I hadn't expected.
"The attacks mostly happen around matches now. The pressure builds up and..." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "My body thinks I'm dying."
"And your dad just yells at you about it?" I couldn't keep the anger from my voice.
Ethan gave a humorless laugh. "My dad believes in pushing through weakness. After Mom died, I wanted to quit tennis. He told me he'd cut me off completely if I did."
"He can't do that!"
"He can and he would." Ethan sighed. "Tennis is everything to him. He was almost pro before an injury. Now he lives through me."
I didn't know what to say. My dad was intense about volleyball, sure, but he'd never threaten to disown me if I quit.
Suddenly, Ethan's perfect life didn't seem so perfect anymore.
Without thinking, I reached out and squeezed his hand. An electric current shot up my arm at the contact, but I ignored it.
"It wasn't your fault," I said firmly. "The accident. You know that, right?"
His eyes met mine, full of doubt. "Logically, yes. But it doesn't stop the guilt."
"I get that." And somehow, I did.
We sat in silence for a while, my hand still on his. I should move it, I thought. I should get up and go back to my team. But I couldn't make myself do either.
Finally, Ethan looked up at me, his blue eyes searching my face. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Why are you suddenly being nice to me? You were so angry at me this morning."
And there it was again. Last night. My face burned with embarrassment, and I jumped to my feet. "I should get back. The team—"
He caught my wrist before I could escape. "Wait. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
He paused, then asked softly, "Did you you really it was a mistake?"