"What the fuck happened?" she demands, stepping forward, almost clawing at me. "The fuck did you do to my best friend?"

"Cut it out, Amanda," I snap, dodging her hands. "I didn't hurt her."

Her eyes flare with anger, her mouth already opening to argue. And then I say it. "I would never hurt a woman—let alone MY woman."

It slips out before I even register I said it.

Amanda freezes.

Her mouth snaps shut.

I ignore my own words and keep my focus on what actually fucking matters.

"It was Evan," I tell her, voice tight with restraint. "She broke up with him and he attacked her. He's being arrested down the hall. I didn't want her to wake up and see that."

Amanda stares at me for a long second, then exhales, pressing her lips together.

"She should see a doctor," she says, voice quieter now.

"Yes," I say. "But, in the meantime, I'm a licensed paramedic."

Amanda hesitates, but after a second, she nods.

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll leave you alone, but if anything seems off⁠—"

"I'll call you," I finish for her.

She nods again, reluctant but trusting. And then she steps out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I walk Izzy over to the couch, lowering her down carefully, as if she's made of glass. I pull out the smelling salts, crack them open, and gently hold them beneath her nose. The ammonia scent fills the air.

"Come back to me, pretty girl," I murmur.

Her eyelids flutter.

I’M NOT AFRAID WHEN HE’S HERE

IZZY

I'm back in my apartment.

It's been four days since the attack—four days since Evan tried to rape me in my own office, since Callahan broke down my door and saved me. Four days since my entire world shattered and began to reform into something unrecognizable.

I sit on my couch wrapped in a blanket, watching the shadows shift across the wall as the afternoon sun filters through the blinds. Outside my Hoboken apartment, traffic rolls by, horns blare, footsteps echo on the sidewalk. Life keeps moving. People keep living.

But I don’t move. I just sit there, numb and heavy, like I’ve sunk into the cushions and can’t find the will to get up. Everything feels far away. Like I’m watching it all from behind thick glass, unable to reach it. Or maybe unwilling.

I took personal time off from work. Not because I wanted to. Amanda and Cal forced me. If it were up to me, I would've gone back the next day and pretended like everything was fine, like nothing happened. But it did happen. And no amount of pretending is going to erase that.

Both of them also dragged me to the emergency room. The antiseptic smell still lingers in my memory, along with the scratchy paper covering the examination table. They made me do a sexual assault examination. I didn't want to at first. I told them it wasn't necessary. Cal was there. He saw the whole thing. He told me he got there before Evan could do his worst. But then he hesitated.

What if the angle was wrong? That's what he said. What if there was something he didn't see while he was running to get me?

That alone was enough to convince me to go.

The tests showed no evidence of penetration or sexual contact. Much to my relief. Because I don't know if I could have handled the alternative. I know he hit me hard enough that I blacked out. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it spared me from worse. But the whole thing was still beyond terrifying. My body still carries the evidence—aches and bruises that make me wince with every movement.

Evan was arrested, of course.

I got a call from the District Attorney's office a few days later. They want to bring charges against him. Attempted sexual assault.

But there's a catch.

They need me to testify.

Without my testimony, they probably won't bring this to trial. I told them I needed to think about it. Because the truth is, I don't know if I can do it. The idea of sitting in open court, reliving that day, detailing what he did—what he tried to do—makes me feel like I can't breathe. My chest tightens just thinking about it, my lungs refusing to expand.

And what if it follows me forever?

What if people search court records someday, and that's all they see about me? Even with victim protection laws, details have a way of leaking out.

What if it never really goes away?

I haven't told anyone about the call yet. Not Amanda. Not Cal. Not my family. Especially not my family. Amanda, bless her loud, chaotic, occasionally psychotic heart, has been uncharacteristically quiet about the trauma. She's respected my boundaries, hasn't pushed me to talk, hasn't forced me into reliving any of it.

And, most importantly, she hasn't told my family.

I begged her not to. Amanda knows my family. She's been to more than a few Sunday dinners. She promised me she wouldn't say a word. She said it wasn't her place. Which thank God, because if my brothers and dad found out? They'd be on trial for murder.

If my mother and Nonna found out? It might actually kill them.

Still, I know she's keeping a close eye on me.

But no one has kept a closer eye on me than Cal.

He's the one who saved me. The first person I saw when I woke up, the one who carried me to the hospital, held my hand through the whole ordeal. The one who brought me home.

He's the one who cooked for me, made sure I showered, and got me into bed. He slept on my couch outside my bedroom door. And I mean, physically outside my bedroom door. He moved the couch in front of it so that any potential intruder would literally have to go through him first. The sound of his steady breathing was oddly comforting through the thin wood.

I told him he should go home. That it wasn't fair to him.

But he just shook his head and said he wasn't leaving me alone.

And the worst part?

It didn't even weird me out.

It should have.

I should be freaked out by how protective he is.

By the fact that, when he finally left for work the next morning, he installed a security camera outside my door.

By the fact that he put up an alarm.

By the fact that he said, "If anyone so much as approaches, I'll know about it."

That should make me feel smothered.

It doesn't.

It makes me feel safe.

He’s come over every night this week.

After work, he shows up at my apartment, makes me dinner, cooks extra so I have food for the next day. He tucks me into bed, tells me I’m safe. Then he sits outside my room until I fall asleep.

He’s remained patient and respectful throughout.

Never once has he pressure me to discuss what happened.

Not once has he done anything but offer quiet, steady support when I need it most.

And I don't know what to do with that.

Because all I want is him.

But I don't know if that's because I'm vulnerable or if it's because this is real.

I’ve tried to figure it out, but can’t, and the week has passed in a blur.

Most days, I sleep until noon, wake up only long enough to eat, then doze off again.

When I’m awake, I barely touch my phone.

Because the last time I did, Evan called.

It happened the day after he was released on bond.

I didn't listen to the voicemail he left.

I couldn't bring myself to hear his voice, to let him invade this space even electronically. The sight of his name alone had sent a wave of nausea crashing over me, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.

After that, I left the device untouched for days.

It sat on my nightstand, powered off, ignored. I let the world move on without me. It took me days to even think about talking to Caleb again. When I finally did, I only responded to his good morning messages. Nothing more.