Evan stood under the shower’s warm water, the sound of the spray almost drowning out the memories that had suddenly flooded his mind. His thoughts drifted back to a night in Las Vegas—a night that had twisted and turned into something he wished he could forget. But it was impossible, especially when the smell of Bacardi lingered so strongly in the air, wrapping itself around his senses.
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It was the scent of *that night*.
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He and Roxy had been walking along the strip, the neon lights flashing and blurring in their eyes, the chaotic energy of Las Vegas swarming around them. It was supposed to be an escape—a break from everything that had weighed them down in LA. But in the city of sin, everything seemed amplified, even the bad memories.
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Roxy had always been the impulsive one, and that night, she wanted to drown it all out. She wanted to be free, to feel something other than the darkness that constantly hovered over her. Evan knew that look in her eyes. It was a hunger, a thirst for something real, something raw.
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When they passed by a bar, a worker had recognized Evan. He’d been a little too excited to meet the lead of TX2. The worker, eager to impress, slipped him a drink—“Here, take it, it’s on the house for you, man.” Evan had looked at the drink, his stomach knotting. But before he could refuse, the worker had handed him a second cup, one for Roxy.
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“She can have one too, right?” the bartender had said with a knowing wink.
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Evan hadn’t agreed, but he hadn’t stopped Roxy when she grabbed the drink. She’d looked at him with that same determined gaze, daring him to stop her.
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“Roxy, don’t—”
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But before he could finish, she had taken a long sip, draining about a third of the glass.
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Evan froze. His mind raced. He had always kept Roxy at arm’s length from danger, but in that moment, her desperation to feel something else overwhelmed him. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the Vegas night or the way her green eyes glimmered with reckless abandon. But something inside of him broke.
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“Roxy, stop!” he snapped, grabbing the cup from her before she could drink any more.
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She let out a short laugh, her eyes a little too wide, a little too bright. “Why not, Evan? I’m just trying to get shit-faced, get a little wasted.” She had smirked, almost daring him to stop her.
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The words echoed in Evan’s mind now, *get a little wasted*. They felt like a line from his song *Pull the Plug*, a song about giving up, about pushing everything away, about taking that final step into darkness. But the way Roxy had said it—that had been different. She was trying to escape, to numb herself from everything that was too heavy for her to carry.
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Evan had taken the cup, gently but firmly, from her trembling hand. “No, Roxy,” he said, voice shaking with something darker than frustration. “You don’t need this. I can’t let you do this.”
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But it was too late for words. Roxy’s face had already shifted, the alcohol settling in, her body swaying slightly on the spot. It was too much, too fast, and Evan knew she wasn’t ready for it.
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That night, when they got to the hotel, there was only one bed. Roxy didn’t hesitate, climbing into his lap with a quiet whimper. She looked up at him, eyes glassy, and Evan felt a deep ache in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was drunk or if it was because of what had already happened.
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“Roxy,” he said softly, trying to get her to settle down. He gave her root beer to calm her, to make her feel comfortable again. The sugary sweetness should have been a comfort. But Roxy spilled it on his jeans, the liquid drenching his lap, and she started to cry, the tears falling silently down her face.
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Evan froze, his heart breaking in that instant. He didn’t want to touch her like this, didn’t want to make things worse, but he couldn’t let her sit in her own misery either. He grabbed a towel and carefully wiped the sticky mess of root beer from his jeans.
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“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, trying to soothe her.
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Roxy didn’t say anything. She just curled up against him, her body small against his chest.
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Evan could feel her heart beating erratically, the weight of her body pressing against his. He had tried to be the protector, to shield her from harm, but tonight had shown him just how fragile she really was.
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And now, as the memories of that night replayed in his mind, the familiar smell of Bacardi clinging to the air, Evan knew this wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. He’d never let her slip away again, not like that. Not ever again.
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The warmth of the shower water became a comfort, but it couldn’t erase the deep ache in his chest. Roxy needed more than just protection.
Roxy sat on the edge of the bathroom counter, the steady sound of the shower water cascading down filling the otherwise quiet space. She was holding Evan's pocket knife gently in her hand, her fingers tracing the cool metal absently as she flipped through the pages of a Stephen King documentary, her mind half-occupied with the words on the page, the other half focused on the weight of the knife in her hand.
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It was strange, how something so simple could bring a sense of comfort, but she knew it wasn’t really the knife. It was the familiarity—the reassurance that she had control, even in the moments when everything felt out of her hands. The knife, though, was more than just an object. It was a piece of her, a reminder of everything she’d gone through, but also a part of her survival.
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Roxy's eyes flicked down to her own knife, tucked into her waistband. It felt like a strange, twisted ritual, the way she and Evan both carried them, like a silent agreement between them that this was a thing they both understood—an unspoken bond.
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The sound of Evan's voice through the shower curtain snapped her out of her thoughts. He was talking to Cam, but Roxy could barely make out the words over the sound of the water. Her gaze remained fixed on the knife, feeling the weight of it settle into her waistband. She shifted slightly, making sure it was securely tucked.
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She didn’t want to think about why it was so important to have it there—why it had become so natural to carry something so sharp, so dangerous. Instead, she just focused on the words in the book in front of her, trying to lose herself in the pages. The world outside seemed far away, and that felt safer than facing anything real right now.
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"Roxy," Evan’s voice cut through the air again, closer this time, followed by the soft rustle of the shower curtain moving. Roxy looked up, momentarily meeting his gaze as he stepped out, his hair wet and dripping down his neck. The scene in the bathroom felt so ordinary, so domestic, but the tension that had built between them, unspoken, still lingered.
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“Everything okay?” Evan asked, his voice softer than usual, the concern clear in his eyes.
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Roxy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her fingers gripping the knife a little tighter. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure him or herself. Either way, the weight of it—the knife, the past, the present—was still heavy. But for now, at least she didn’t feel entirely alone.
Evan noticed the way Roxy was staring at him, her eyes fixed on him as if she was seeing something deeper, something more than just her adopted dad standing in front of her. It wasn’t the usual concerned, protective look he was used to from her; it was different, more intense, almost like she was watching him the way someone would watch a celebrity they were completely obsessed with. His stomach tightened as he realized the weight of that gaze.
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He knew that look. Roxy had always been the type to keep her feelings tightly guarded, never quite allowing anyone to see everything she was thinking. But this—this was different. It was a mixture of admiration, awe, and something else he couldn’t place. Something that made his heart race for a split second, like he was a stranger, even though he’d known her since she was a kid.
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Evan’s fingers twitched at his side, an instinct to step closer, to pull her back into her reality. But there was something in the way she looked at him, something in her expression, that made him hesitate.
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He swallowed hard. “You alright?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but there was no mistaking the concern.
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Roxy didn’t immediately respond, still lost in her gaze as her heart beat faster, making her feel almost lightheaded. She didn’t know how to break the tension or what exactly she was feeling. It was as if the lines between what was familial and what wasn’t had blurred in that moment. All she knew was that her chest tightened in a way she wasn’t used to, a mix of emotions swirling inside her.
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Evan stepped forward, his wet hair falling over his forehead as he watched her carefully. He wanted to shake her out of whatever trance she was in, but something told him to wait, to give her space to figure it out, even though he was anxious.
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"Roxy," he said quietly, his hand hovering near her shoulder, his voice soft and reassuring. "Talk to me."
Evan stood there for a moment, caught off guard by Roxy’s words. *“Your hair wet just looks good,”* she said, her voice soft but genuine, like a compliment that came straight from somewhere deeper than the surface.
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He wasn’t used to this kind of attention from her—not in this way. He felt something shift in him, the casual, protective father instinct he had when it came to Roxy suddenly blending with something else—something complicated, something he couldn’t quite define. His lips parted as if he was about to say something, but instead, he just bit his lip awkwardly, trying to shake off the rush of emotion that caught him off guard.
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Cam, sensing the tension building, cleared his throat from the doorway, his voice breaking through the thick silence. “Blink twice if you need help, Evan,” he said lightly, but there was a layer of understanding underneath. He wasn’t just poking fun at Evan’s awkwardness. He knew how intense these moments could get, especially with everything Roxy and Evan had been through.
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Evan turned to Cam for a split second, grateful for the lifeline, and blinked, though it wasn’t out of necessity. It was a signal, more like a quiet acknowledgment between the two of them. Cam could see that Evan was struggling, more than he let on. And Roxy—she was trying to navigate emotions that didn’t belong in the world they had carved out together.
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"Why are we so real, raw, emotional, confusing?" Roxy’s voice was quieter now, almost questioning, as if the intensity of the moment was overwhelming her too. "Can we be funny with dirty-minded jokes?" she asked, her lips curling into a slight smirk. She was trying to ground herself in something more familiar, more comfortable. It was how she dealt with everything—finding humor even in the most painful situations.
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Evan exhaled sharply, looking at Roxy with a slight smile, but the heaviness of the room still clung to him. "I don’t know what the hell is going on," he said, trying to lighten the mood, though it came out more strained than he intended. "But I’m pretty sure we can be funny, right? We just have to not mess this up first."
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Cam, sensing the brief moment of levity, nodded. "That’s the spirit," he said, his voice a little less serious. He was trying to keep things light, trying to break the tension, but he also knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
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Evan finally began to pull on his clothes, the sound of fabric against skin filling the otherwise quiet room. The act of getting dressed, something so simple and mundane, felt almost surreal in that moment. For some reason, it felt like he was slowly slipping back into a reality that didn’t quite match the emotions flooding him—like he was taking off one skin and slipping into another.
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He couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the thought, *I feel like Magic Mike,* he mused to himself. As he buttoned up his shirt, the motion felt strangely choreographed, like he was in some performance, the music of *Glee* playing softly in the background. It was ridiculous—he wasn’t the type to make things light by pretending to be some showman, but in that moment, it felt like he needed something, anything, to push through the tension.
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Roxy watched him, her eyes flicking from his hands to his face as he dressed, and a small smile tugged at her lips.
Evan watched as Roxy jumped off the counter, the motion sharp and quick. Both he and Cam instinctively reached out to grab one of her arms, steadying her. "Oh, shit. Yup, we're going out," Evan muttered under his breath, his tone both tired and resigned. He whispered to Cam, his words meant only for him. "She's taking a shower, make sure she’s good."
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Evan wasn’t sure if it was the weight of everything that had happened, or just the regular rhythm of their life together, but he couldn’t help but take the actions he did so instinctively now. He moved toward her room, quickly grabbing her book that she had left behind on the counter and placing it safely on her bed. She’d been reading it obsessively lately, but he knew she didn’t want to be without it.
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He knew Roxy’s habits better than anyone, and one of those habits was how she wore a skimpy strap bikini top under her tube tops. He'd caught onto it a while ago. It wasn’t that she had to do it—it was just how she was. It was a comfort, something to hold everything in place where a normal bra never seemed to work.
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Roxy never said anything, but Evan had learned over time. It wasn’t unusual for him to pull her shirt down or adjust it when it rode up too high, and now, he didn’t even think about it. It had become an automatic reflex—something he did without hesitation because he knew it made her feel better. Maybe it was the father figure in him or maybe just the bond they had built, but it was a quiet gesture that spoke volumes of the trust they shared.
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He couldn’t help but glance at her for a second.
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