Zac held Roxie on the floor until her shaking slowed enough for her to breathe without choking on it.

She still had both fists twisted in his shirt.

Every time he shifted even a little, her hands tightened like he might disappear if she let go. Her face stayed pressed against his chest, damp from tears, her breathing uneven and hot through the thin cotton.

The room was cold from the open window.

The curtain moved with the air.

Roxie did not look at it.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut and listened to Zac’s heartbeat instead. It was fast. Too fast. His chest rose hard under her cheek, and one of his hands kept moving over the back of her head like he was trying to remind both of them where they were.

Inside.

Together.

Away from the window.

"Roxie," he said quietly.

She shook her head at once.

"I’m not leaving," he said. "I just need to close the window."

Her fingers dug into his shirt. "Don’t."

"Okay."

He stopped moving.

That helped more than it should have. He just stopped. No arguing. No telling her she was being crazy. No trying to peel her off him like she was too much.

He stayed.

Roxie’s breath hitched again, and another sob broke out of her.

Zac’s arm tightened around her back.

"I’m here," he said. "I’m right here."

She believed him because she could feel him.

That was the only thing her brain trusted right now.

His shirt under her fingers. His arm around her. His voice above her head. The warm weight of him in the room that had been hers and then suddenly had not felt like hers anymore.

Outside, there was a low sound from below the window.

Roxie’s body went stiff.

Zac felt it immediately.

"He’s outside," he said, and his voice changed. "He’s not coming in."

She could not answer.

Her throat hurt too much.

Zac looked toward the window. She felt him move, and panic rushed up so fast she almost clawed at him.

"Don’t," she cried.

His attention came back to her. "I won’t go out there."

"Don’t leave me."

"I’m not leaving you."

"He’ll come back."

"He won’t."

"You don’t know that."

Zac’s jaw moved against her hair. "He won’t."

The way he said it should have scared her. Maybe it would scare her later, when her body stopped shaking, when she could think about the sound of Steve hitting the dirt, when she remembered the way Zac had not heard her at first.

Right now, it only made her hold on harder.

Because Zac meant it.

Because someone finally meant it.

Zac shifted just enough to reach behind him. Roxie tensed, but he kept one arm around her while he stretched toward the window. The frame scraped down with a rough sound that made Roxie flinch against him.

"It’s closed," he said quickly. "It’s closed, Roxie."

The latch did not catch.

They both heard it.

Zac looked at it once, then reached over and dragged her desk chair against the window. It scraped over the floor and hit the wall with a dull thud. Then he pulled the dresser slightly, enough to make the chair stick.

He did it one-handed because Roxie would not let go.

"There," he said. "He can’t open it without making noise."

Roxie nodded because she wanted to believe him.

Her body did not.

Her body still felt Steve’s hand pushing through the window.

Zac sat back down with her, pulling her into his lap this time because the corner was too narrow and Roxie was too weak to sit on her own. Her legs folded against his side. Her cheek stayed pressed to his chest. She could feel his knuckles against her shoulder, warm and scraped.

That made her cry again.

"Your hand," she whispered.

"It’s fine."

"It’s bleeding."

"It’s fine."

She swallowed, and her throat burned. "Did you kill him?"

Zac went still.

The silence after that was worse than any answer.

Roxie lifted her head a little, but she could not make herself look toward the window.

"Zac."

"No," he said. His voice was rough. "No, I didn’t."

"Are you sure?"

"I’m sure."

"Then why isn’t he moving?"

Zac looked toward the covered window.

Roxie saw his face from close up, the tight line of his mouth, the blood smeared over one knuckle, the dirt on his sleeve. His eyes were still too bright, like the fight had not fully left him.

"He’s breathing," Zac said. "I saw him breathing."

Roxie nodded again.

She did not know what else to do.

Zac exhaled hard. "We need to call someone."

Her whole body locked.

He felt it. "Roxie."

"No."

"We need to call."

"No."

"He tried to climb through your window."

"I know."

"He could have—" Zac stopped, and his arms tightened around her. His voice came out lower. "We have to tell someone."

"No cops."

"Roxie."

"No cops," she said, louder, and the panic came back so fast her chest started pulling tight again. "Please. Zac, please."

His face changed.

"No." Her voice shook. "You don’t get it."

"Then tell me."

She laughed once, but it broke into a sob before it became anything real.

Tell him.

As if it was that easy.

As if she could hand him the whole rotten thing and make it make sense.

If cops came, there would be questions.

If there were questions, there would be reports.

If there were reports, the school might find out.

And if Briarwick found out, Roxie could lose the only place where she had built a version of herself that did not feel like this.

"I have a scholarship," she whispered.

Zac stared at her.

"That’s what you’re thinking about right now?"

She flinched.

He looked like he regretted it immediately.

"Roxie, I didn’t mean—"

"You don’t understand," she said, crying harder now because he didn’t, because of course he didn’t. "You live in a house where people notice if you’re gone. You get to mess up and still be Zac Prescott. If people find out about this, I’m the girl with the drunk mom and her mom’s boyfriend who climbed through her window."

His face tightened.

"That’s not your fault."

"It doesn’t matter."

"It does."

"No, it doesn’t." Her voice cracked. "It never matters. They’ll talk. They’ll ask why I didn’t say something before. They’ll ask why my mom lets him live here. They’ll ask why I stayed. They’ll look at me different."

"Roxie, he attacked you."

"Please don’t call," Roxie whispered. "Not tonight."

Zac stared at her for a long moment.

His jaw was tight. His eyes moved over her face, then to the chair shoved against the window, then to the knife on the carpet.

He hated it.

She could see that.

But he looked back at her and nodded once.

"Okay."

Roxie sagged against him.

Right in his arms.

This was all Roxie could manage right now.

Her body started to give up after that.

The shaking did not fully stop, but it changed. It became smaller. Exhausted. Her head grew heavy against Zac’s chest. Every few seconds, a leftover sob moved through her, and Zac would hold her tighter until it passed.

"You’re safe," he said quietly.

She did not answer.

"Nobody’s touching you while I’m here."

Her fingers curled into his shirt.

"I mean it, Roxie."

She believed him.

That was what made her breathing finally slow.

"I’ll protect you," he said. His voice was low near her ear. "I don’t care who it is. I don’t care what I have to do. Nobody gets near you again."

Roxie should have thought about the blood on his hand.

She should have thought about Steve on the ground.

She should have thought about how Zac sounded when he said it, like the promise was set in stone.

But all she felt was relief.

He would protect her.

Someone would.

She cried again, quieter this time.

Zac shifted until his back was against the bed. "Can you stand?"

Roxie tried.

Her legs trembled before she even pushed herself up.

Zac felt it and stopped her. "Okay. I’ve got you."

He lifted her carefully, one arm under her knees and one around her back. Roxie clung to him, face against his neck, too tired to be embarrassed. He set her on the bed and pulled the blanket over her, then started to step back.

He kicked off his shoes, climbed onto the bed over the blanket, and lay behind her fully clothed.

Then his arm came around her.

Roxie turned into him and pressed her face against his chest again.

The bed was too small for both of them. His legs bent awkwardly. One of his feet hung off the edge. His injured hand stayed tucked against his stomach like he did not want to get blood on her blanket.

She listened to him breathe.

The room stayed cold. The chair stayed jammed under the window. The TV kept murmuring in the living room until it finally turned into static or maybe Roxie stopped hearing it.

She did not remember falling asleep.

One second, she was holding Zac’s hand and fighting to keep her eyes open.

The next, pale morning light was spreading across her room.

Roxie woke with a sharp inhale.

Her whole body jerked.

At first, she did not know where she was. She saw the curtains, the dresser, the chair shoved against the window, and panic jumped into her throat.

Then Zac moved.

"I’m here," he said.

Roxie turned fast.

He was lying beside her, still fully dressed, still awake.

His eyes were on her.

He looked exhausted. His hair was messy. His mouth was tense. The knuckles on his right hand were swollen and raw, and there was dried blood near his thumb.

But he was there.

Relief hit her so hard she almost cried again.

"You stayed," she whispered.

His face changed.

"Yeah."

"I thought maybe..."

She did not finish.

He understood anyway.

His hand moved carefully to her cheek. "I promised."

Roxie leaned into his palm before she could stop herself.

For a few seconds, they just looked at each other.

It should have felt strange, waking up in bed with Zac Prescott in her room, his arm around her, her blanket twisted around both of them. Yesterday, that would have been a scandal. Yesterday, Roxie would have thought about rumors, about Kendall, about what people would say if they knew.

This morning, she only thought about how his arm was still around her.

Then the bedroom door opened.

Roxie jolted so hard Zac sat up with her.

Claire stood in the doorway.

Her hair was tangled. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes. One side of her robe hung off her shoulder, and she squinted at the room.

For one second, she looked confused.

Then her eyes landed on Zac in Roxie’s bed.

Her face changed.

"What the hell is this?"

Roxie’s stomach dropped.