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“No, not seriously. Just messing with you. I’m the chef.”

The waitress returns with our breakfast and an assurance that the granola is cashew-free. The bowl looks delicious—golden-brown clusters mixed with creamy yogurt and bright berries. I thank her and dig in, savoring the sweet crunch.

"So," Charlie says between bites of his omelet, "do you want some of my coffee? I know how much you love it.”

I laugh, swallowing another spoonful of granola. "You know I don’t want your coffee. If I’m going to drink any coffee, I’ll have Emerald City’s. It’s the only coffee I evenkind oflike."

“Well, at least that’s something I guess,” he concedes, taking another large sip.

Three bites later, I feel it—that first telltale tingle on my lips, the slight tightening in my throat. My body recognizes the danger before my mind fully processes it.

No. Not now. Not here.

I put down my spoon, suddenly hyper-aware of every sensation. The tingling intensifies, spreading across my mouth.My tongue feels swollen, heavy. I reach for my water, taking a desperate gulp as panic rises in my chest.

"Charlie," I manage, my voice already changing, growing hoarse. "Something's wrong."

He looks up from his plate, his expression shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant. "What is it?"

"Cashews," I wheeze, fingers fumbling for my purse. "There must be—in the granola?—"

My throat constricts further, each breath becoming a struggle. The familiar, terrifying sensation of my airways narrowing sends a bolt of fear through me. I find my EpiPen case, hands shaking so badly I can barely open it.

"Jesus, Tess." Charlie is beside me in an instant, taking the EpiPen from my trembling fingers. "What do I do? How do I use this?"

I try to speak, but my voice is barely there. I gesture—remove the cap, hold against my thigh, push until it clicks.

Charlie follows my panicked instructions, his face pale but his hands steady as he presses the auto-injector against my leg. The needle deploys with a click, and the medicine rushes into my system. I count the seconds silently, fighting against the growing pressure in my chest.

"We need to get you to the emergency room," Charlie says, already pulling out his wallet and throwing cash on the table.

I nod, knowing he's right. This isn't my first reaction, but it's been years since the last one, and the intensity terrifies me. Charlie wraps an arm around my waist, supporting me as we move through the restaurant. My vision blurs at the edges, my lungs burning with the effort of drawing breath.

"My car's closer than waiting for an ambulance," he says, guiding me toward the exit. "Can you make it?"

I nod again, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Each step feels monumental, each breath a conscious battle.

Charlie's voice is calm but urgent as he speaks to the hotel valet, demanding his car immediately. His arm never leaves my waist, his body solid and reassuring against mine. As the world narrows around me, his voice becomes my anchor.

"You’re going to be okay, Tess," he murmurs close to my ear. "I’m going to get you there as fast as I can."

The valet screeches to a halt in front of us, Charlie's sleek black Aston Martin barely stopping before he's yanking open the passenger door. My legs feel wobbly as I slide into the seat, my breathing coming in short, painful gasps.

"Hang in there," Charlie says, slamming my door and racing around to the driver's side.

Charlie peels out of the hotel entrance, tires squealing against asphalt. My body presses back into the leather seat as he accelerates, weaving between a delivery truck and a minivan.

I grip the door handle, trying to focus on my breathing instead of the buildings blurring past my window. The epinephrine is working—I can feel it in my racing heart and trembling hands—but my throat still feels too tight, my tongue too big for my mouth.

Charlie takes a corner so sharply that I slide against my seatbelt. His eyes flick between the road and my face, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"How are you doing?" he asks, voice taut as he accelerates through a yellow light.

"Still breathing," I manage to whisper. The words scrape past my swollen throat.

He navigates around a slow-moving sedan, cutting back into our lane with inches to spare. I should be terrified by his driving, but there's a controlled precision to his movements that's oddly reassuring. His face is a mask of concentration.

We arrive at the hospital and Charlie pulls up in front of the doors to the ER. He jumps out immediately and comes to the passenger side, easing me out.