Meanwhile, Oliver watched everything unfold from the sidelines, the unease in his chest growing heavier by the day.
No one understood Evan better than he did.
No one knew how deeply Maya was carved into Evan's life.
Evan wasn't the type to love loudly, but when he did, it was with a devotion so absolute it bordered on self-destruction. If Maya had ever asked, Evan would have given up everything—his dreams, his future, even his life—without hesitation.
Oliver had seen it with his own eyes.
Back in college, on a night that should have ended in nothing more than hangovers and bad jokes, their group had been walking home together after a party. The streets were dim, the air thick with alcohol and laughter, Maya walking in the middle, teasing Evan about how stiff he looked even when he was drunk.
Then the laughter stopped.
A group of men stepped out from the shadows—reeking of alcohol, eyes filthy with intent. Before anyone could react, one of them reached out and grabbed Maya.
She froze.
The others panicked. Someone yelled to run. Another grabbed Oliver's arm. Fear scattered them in every direction like startled birds.
But Evan didn't move.
He stepped forward.
Oliver would never forget the way Evan's voice sounded—steady, low, terrifyingly calm."Don't touch her."
The men laughed. One of them swung first.
Evan took the hit without flinching and shoved Maya behind him, shielding her with his own body. Fists rained down. Someone pulled a knife. In the chaos, a blade flashed—and Evan's wrist was slashed open, blood spilling instantly onto the pavement.
Maya screamed.
Even then, Evan didn't retreat. He fought back with one hand, gripping the bleeding wrist with the other, eyes red, teeth clenched, standing between her like a wall that refused to fall.
By the time the police sirens echoed down the street, the men fled. Evan finally collapsed to his knees, blood pooling beneath him.
Maya knelt beside him, sobbing, pressing her hands over his wound, begging him to stay awake."Are you stupid?! Why didn't you run?"
Evan had smiled at her then—pale, shaky, but gentle. "If I ran," he whispered, "who would protect you?"
Oliver remembered that night too clearly. The hospital lights. The smell of antiseptic. The way Evan never once complained about the pain, only asking, over and over, if Maya was okay.
That was Evan.
So when Oliver saw him now—alive but hollow, breathing but broken—his chest tightened painfully.
Maya hadn't just been Evan's love.
She had been his courage.
His anchor.
His reason for becoming someone stronger.
And now she was gone.
Oliver lowered his gaze, fists clenched.
For the first time, he understood something terrifying.
Evan hadn't survived losing Maya.
He was only existing—walking forward in a life that no longer had a heart.