Evan rubbed his eyes as he sat up, disoriented. His body felt heavy, and his thoughts were sluggish as he realized it was already 5:15 AM. Roxy should be awake by now. It wasn’t like her to oversleep, even on bad nights. He glanced at the claw marks on his arm, frowning as the events of the night came back in hazy flashes. As his fingers brushed the mark, it stung lightly, and he muttered, "Must’ve been the damn wall."
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Sliding his hand to his waistband, he felt the pocket knife resting there and frowned. Why the hell is this here? He thought he’d handed it over to Cam days ago to keep it away. The chain on his jeans jingled as he shifted, catching Cam’s attention as he stepped out of his room in a towel, fresh from his shower.
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Cam raised an eyebrow, water still dripping from his hair. "You're up late. What’s going on?"
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Evan stood, running a hand through his hair, and started pacing. "Something feels off. Roxy isn’t up. She should be awake by now, and"
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."Dude, what the hell happened last night?"
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Cam sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t know. You were both out cold when I checked earlier. Maybe you were just—” He hesitated, trying to find a reasonable explanation. “—sweating or something. Anxiety, remember?”
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Evan groaned, feeling more disoriented by the second. “This is weird as hell. My arm looks like I went three rounds with a freaking tiger."
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Cam raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but deciding not to push. “Let her go first. I’ll handle breakfast or something. Just—figure out what’s going on with you two, alright?”
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Evan nodded, still feeling unsettled as he walked toward the bathroom. His mind raced with questions, but there were no answers yet. One thing was clear, though: the morning wasn’t off to a smooth start.
Evan approached Roxy, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her. “Hey, it’s past five. You okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.
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Roxy stirred, blinking up at him groggily before her face twisted in confusion. She sat up, and as she moved.
Evan froze, watching her with a sharp gaze.
He stared at her, his blue eyes narrowing as realization hit him like a freight train. He knew. He didn’t need her to say anything. He understood.
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“Roxy,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his chest was tight with emotion.
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Before she could say anything—or run—he reached out, gripping her wrist lightly but firmly, and pulled her off the couch. It wasn’t rough, but it was fast, like he needed to get her out of that space immediately.
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Roxy landed on the floor with a soft thud, her wide green eyes locking onto his.
Cam appeared in the doorway, his expression grim as he took in the scene. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. He knew the weight of the couch in their shared history, especially for Roxy. His presence was a quiet acknowledgment of the pain that hung heavy in the room.
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Roxy didn’t say a word, Evan crouched down in front of her, his movements deliberate and slow, trying to ground her without overwhelming her further.
Evan's chest tightened as he knelt down in front of Roxy, his heart pounding in his ears. He could see the look in her eyes—too familiar. The same vacant expression he had seen so many times before, the one that always haunted him, made him ache in a way that only someone who understood the weight of trauma could.
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Suddenly, the world around him seemed to blur, and his mind flashed back to that terrible day when Roxy had first told him about the assault. The memories flooded in, thick with anger and helplessness, and he found himself back in that sterile room again, sitting beside her as she was forced to relive the nightmare over and over.
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**Flashback**
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Evan's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he stood behind the interviewer’s desk, feeling his stomach churn with every word spoken about Roxy. She was sitting across from him, her head down, eyes staring at her lap, the skirt she was wearing an unfortunate focal point in a room that felt like it was closing in on them.
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The interviewer, a middle-aged woman with glasses that sat too high on her nose, was trying to get Roxy to say it again. **Say what happened.** **Explain it again.** **And again.** Evan’s blood boiled, watching Roxy shrink in front of him as she struggled to repeat what no one should ever have to say once, let alone four times.
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“You know,” the interviewer said, her voice cold, distant, “you need to tell me exactly what happened. You were wearing a skirt. Did that have something to do with it?”
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Evan’s jaw clenched, and he bit down on the urge to snap. He couldn’t let his anger show in front of Roxy, not when she was already fragile. His heart ached for her, but he also felt an overwhelming need to protect her from the world that kept asking her to relive the horror.
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“I told you, *it doesn’t matter what she was wearing*,” Evan snapped, his voice shaking with fury. “It’s not her fault. Don’t you dare make her feel like it is. She was assaulted, not because of some damn skirt. Get that through your head.”
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The woman’s face hardened, but she didn’t say anything as she scribbled notes, almost dismissively. Roxy sat there, quiet, her small fingers gripping the edge of the chair, as if bracing herself for something worse. She had already told her story over and over, but it was like nothing was ever enough for them. Nothing made it real enough for them to truly understand.
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Roxy glanced up, her face confused but grateful for the distraction. Evan didn’t know if it would work, but he had to try. He had to pull the attention away from her, away from her body, and shift the focus to him, where it was safe.
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"Hey, you don't need to focus on her. *Focus on me for once*," he muttered, trying to keep his voice light, to mask the anger he felt bubbling inside. "Let's talk about me for a bit, yeah?"
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But Roxy looked nauseous, her face pale. She shifted uncomfortably, her hand flying to her mouth as if she was going to be sick. Evan noticed the way she jumped—startled and panicked. She grabbed him, her nails sinking deep into his arm, digging into him so hard that Evan winced.
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"Roxy," Evan said, trying to pull away, but she was like a cat, clinging to him with an intensity that made his skin burn. He couldn't get free, her nails still embedded in his skin. It hurt, but he didn’t dare pull away too quickly. He had to hold her together.
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But the pain in his arm was starting to grow unbearable. The blood was starting to flow, and he could feel his vision blurring, dizziness taking over. "Shit... Roxy," he gasped, trying to keep himself steady as the blood loss started to make his head spin.
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As the room swirled, Evan's knees buckled. He collapsed, his body too weak from the blood loss, and Roxy was left sitting on top of him, her wide eyes locked on the interviewer.
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The interviewer, as indifferent as ever, stared at Evan’s bloodied arm. Evan managed to gasp out, “Can I get a bandaid here?”
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The interviewer barely blinked before tossing him a tiny, almost insulting bandage. Evan, sarcastic even in his pain, slapped it on as best as he could, still bleeding. “Thanks. That really helps,” he muttered through gritted teeth, barely able to focus as he tried to regain his strength. The tiny bandaid was no match for the mess that was his arm. He could feel the blood soaking through his shirt, but at least it wasn’t the worst of it.
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Roxy stared at him, frozen, her fingers still clenched around his arm, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to process everything happening around her.
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---
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**End of Flashback**
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Back in the present, Evan shook his head as the memory faded. He couldn’t shake the way it felt, the helplessness of it all. He looked at Roxy, her eyes wide, and saw that same look—the same fear and confusion she had in that room all those months ago. She was still carrying that pain with her, still haunted by it.
Evan’s mind spiraled deeper into the memories, dragging him to the moments after Roxy’s interview. The tension from earlier still clung to the air like static, and he could feel the weight of everything she’d been through pressing on his chest.
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**Flashback**
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After the interview finally ended, Roxy was offered a choice: blankets, kiddie toys, or stuffed animals. Evan’s heart ached as he watched her hesitate, her green eyes scanning the options. She wasn’t a child, but she wasn’t ready to be an adult, either—not after everything.
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Roxy reached out and picked a red Maine Coon cat stuffed animal, holding it close to her chest. Evan couldn’t help but smile at her choice. It was soft, comforting, and unapologetically hers.
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“That’s a good pick,” Evan said gently, crouching next to her. “You’re mature for your age, Roxy, but it’s okay to have something like this. You deserve it.”
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The worker standing nearby snorted, folding their arms. “That’s a bit childish, don’t you think?”
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Evan’s smile dropped in an instant, his blue eyes snapping toward the worker like a storm brewing. He stood up, his body tense, his voice steady but filled with anger. “Childish?” he repeated, his tone sharp.
The worker’s eyes widened in shock, clearly caught off guard by Evan’s bluntness. They stammered for a response,
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“She’s been through enough,” Evan said, his voice low but firm, his eyes locking onto the worker’s. “And you? You’re the one acting childish, making comments like that. Let her have this. Let her heal in her own way.”
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The worker’s face twisted, their professionalism slipping for a moment. “Does she… self-harm?” they asked, their gaze shifting to where Evan’s hand rested on Roxy’s shoulder. The tank top she wore revealed faint marks, ones Evan was subtly trying to shield from view.
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Evan’s jaw tightened, his body going rigid as he stood protectively in front of Roxy, blocking their line of sight. “That’s none of your damn business,” he said coldly. “She’s my responsibility now, and I’ll take care of her. Maybe you should focus on doing your job instead of judging a 16-year-old for choosing a stuffed animal.”
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Roxy stayed silent, clutching the red Maine Coon closer. She was trying to shrink into herself, the weight of their conversation too heavy to bear. Evan noticed, his heart twisting.
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He leaned down, his voice soft again as he said, “Hey, you’re good. Don’t let anyone make you feel small, okay? That’s yours. You picked it because it made you happy, and that’s all that matters.”
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Later that evening, the stuffed animal found its place in Roxy’s doorway. Every time Evan walked past her room, he’d trip over it. At first, he muttered curses under his breath, frustrated by his clumsiness, but it didn’t take long for him to realize it wasn’t random.
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It was deliberate. It was Roxy’s way of coping.
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Evan finally understood one night when he stopped to pick up the stuffed animal after nearly falling over it again. His eyes lingered on the worn fabric, the soft fur matted from how tightly Roxy had been holding it. It was her anchor. The same way Evan had used his knives or Cam had used his music, this red Maine Coon was her way of dealing with the things she couldn’t say out loud.
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Evan sat down in the hallway, holding the stuffed animal in his hands. His fingers brushed over its ears as a lump formed in his throat. “You really are mature for your age,” he murmured to himself, thinking back to how she had stood her ground against the worker, even when her world was falling apart.
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The next morning, when he saw the stuffed animal in its usual spot in the doorway, he didn’t trip over it. He stepped over it carefully, respecting its place.
Evan stayed crouched in front of Roxy, his heart pounding as he tried to think of what to do. Evan knew Roxy’s triggers like the back of his hand. If she got overwhelmed, anxiety would spiral into OCD, and then into vasovagal syncope. Her airway, already narrow as it was, would become even more of a problem if she fainted.
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He couldn’t risk her going into the shower alone.
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Evan took a deep breath, his mind racing for a solution. “Hey,” he said gently, keeping his voice steady despite the chaos inside him. “How about you skip the shower for now? Let’s do something else instead, okay?”
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Roxy blinked at him, her gaze distant but beginning to focus. She didn’t respond verbally, but her slight nod was enough for him to work with.
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Evan stood and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet carefully. “Come with me,” he said, leading her toward the bathroom. “I’ll take my shower first. You can sit in there with me and read a book or something. I’ll leave the curtain closed so you won’t see anything. It’ll be fine.”
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Roxy hesitated, but the thought of being close to Evan, even just sitting outside the curtain, felt safer than being alone with her spiraling thoughts. She nodded again, following him.
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The bathroom smelled overwhelmingly of cherry. Cherry lotion, cherry body spray, cherry deodorant—it was all Roxy’s doing, and Evan didn’t mind the scent most days. But today, the sweetness clung too heavily to the air, adding to his own tension.
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Evan grabbed Cam’s can of Axe body spray off the counter and gave it a quick spritz, mixing the strong, masculine scent into the cherry-laden air. It wasn’t great, but it helped him focus. His own body spray, a Bacardi-scented one, felt too personal for this moment.
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He handed Roxy a book, the one she’d been reading earlier, and gestured for her to sit on the closed toilet lid. “You can sit here. Just focus on the book, okay? I’ll talk to you while I’m in there, and if you need anything, just say so.”
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Roxy clutched the book tightly, her fingers trembling slightly. She nodded, sitting down and flipping it open, though her eyes barely moved across the words.
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Evan stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. The water splashed down, a steady, grounding sound that filled the silence. “I’m here, Roxy,” he said, his voice carrying over the water. “You’re not alone.”
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The cherry scent mixed with the steam, and Roxy inhaled deeply, letting it fill her lungs. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. Evan’s voice anchored her as she sat there, trying to calm her racing thoughts.
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“You know,” Evan said suddenly, his tone lighter, “I swear this cherry takeover was your master plan all along. Cam’s probably wondering why he smells like a fruit salad every time he walks in here.”
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A small smile tugged at Roxy’s lips, and she looked down at her book. “It’s better than your Bacardi spray,” she said softly, her voice almost teasing.
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Evan chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Touché.”
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