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Chapter Text

The air felt heavier when Trevor woke up that morning. He could still feel the weight of sleep heavy on his limbs, even as he stretched out across his bed. He had a headache that throbbed behind his left eye and a dull ache in his right cheekbone that was more prominent with each blink. The muted light filtering through the curtains cast an eerie glow over his room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the stillness. He lay there for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of the world waking up outside: birds chirping nervously, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional bark of a neighbour's dog.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor sending a shiver up his spine. He shuffled to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to peer outside. The sky was overcast, grey clouds looming ominously, threatening rain but holding back for now.

In the kitchen, he filled the kettle with water, trying to drown out the growing anxiety. His fingers trembled slightly as he set it on the stove, the metallic clang echoing too loudly in the silence. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter, wiping his palms against his jeans. He had to shake off this feeling; he couldn’t let it drag him down. The kettle whistled its final, ear-bleedingly high whistle, and Trevor poured the water into the mug, watching as the once-clear liquid began to swirl with hints of colour.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the herbal scent that filled the air as he stirred in a bit of honey, the sweetness soothing in contrast to the bitterness that lingered in his mind. He leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise and curl in the air. Trevor moved to the living room, the mug cradled in his hands. He sank into the worn couch, taking a sip of tea, feeling the weight of the world slowly lift as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. Only one shoot today. One shoot, then he could go home and lie in bed, alone in the darkness of his room. 

The anticipation stirred a sense of dread, a knotted uncertainty that gnawed at him.

Trevor took another sip of his tea, letting the warmth seep into his hands, hoping it would seep into his thoughts as well.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was time to move. He couldn’t linger in this haze any longer. The thought of being on camera sent a fresh wave of anxiety rippling through him, but he pushed himself to stand, forcing his legs to carry him to the small bathroom across the hall.

As he splashed cold water on his face, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles lined his eyes, and his hair stuck up in odd angles. He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the throbbing that had settled there.

“Get it together, Trevor,” he muttered to himself, willing the self-doubt to dissipate. He needed to present a composed front, at least for the shoot. 

After brushing his teeth and smoothing down his hair, he returned to the living room. Outside, the world was blurred and muted, the colours dulled by the overcast sky. It was fitting, he thought, as he stepped out into the drizzle, hurrying to his car and slamming the door behind himself.

As he reached the studio, he paused at the entrance, taking a moment to gather himself before stepping inside. The bright lights and bustling activity hit him like a wave, overwhelming and almost dizzying. Trevor took a deep breath, but the air felt thick and heavy, suffocating him. He scanned the room, but the faces around him blurred together in a chaotic mix of movement and sound.

Each shout of direction, each burst of laughter from the crew, amplified the mounting pressure in his mind. It was just a shoot, Trevor tried to tell himself, just another day in front of the camera. 

“Trevor! Over here!” Amanda’s voice sliced through the noise, pulling him from the swirling chaos in his mind. He blinked, focusing on her, and forced himself to move toward her, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. 

With every step, his breath quickened, and the room began to spin. He clutched his mug tighter, the ceramic digging into his palm as he fought against the rising tide of panic. He could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the studio.

“Trevor!” Amanda’s voice was sharper now, tinged with concern. She approached, her expression shifting from irritation to worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just… just give me a second,” he managed to say, though the words felt foreign and heavy on his tongue. He tried to smile, but it felt strained, an effort that left him more exhausted.

The room shifted, colours blurring at the edges as the brightness of the lights intensified. Trevor’s vision began to narrow, the vibrant chaos of the studio fading into a dim tunnel. The world felt like it was closing in around him, each breath becoming more of a struggle. He pressed a hand against the wall for support, feeling the cool surface grounding him.

“Trevor, you don’t look well,” Amanda said, her voice faintly cutting through the fog. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”

He nodded, but as he turned to find a chair, his legs betrayed him. The floor felt unsteady beneath his feet, and he staggered, his heart pounding wildly as he fought to catch his breath. It was too much—too many eyes, too much noise, too many expectations crashing down like a tidal wave.

He stumbled back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Each ragged breath felt like it was pulling him deeper into the panic, the world spiralling further away.

“Trevor!” Amanda knelt beside him, her hand gently touching his back. “Breathe with me. In… and out.”

He focused on her voice, trying to anchor himself in her words. He inhaled shakily, feeling the air fill his lungs, but it was still too fast, too frantic.

“Good, keep going,” she encouraged, her tone calm yet firm. “In through your nose… out through your mouth. Just like that.”

Trevor struggled to match his breathing to hers, but the air felt too thin, too jagged. Panic surged within him, clawing at his insides like a feral animal desperate to escape. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dark thoughts to dissipate, but they only grew louder.

What if he couldn’t pull himself together? What if everyone could see how broken he was? 

 “I can’t… I can’t breathe,” he gasped, the confession spilling out between ragged breaths.

“Take a sip of water,” Amanda instructed gently, reaching for a nearby bottle. She handed it to him, and he clumsily fumbled it in his hands, nearly dropping it. But the moment he took a sip, the cool liquid soothed his parched throat, grounding him further.

“Let’s try again,” she said, her voice steady. “In for four counts… hold for four… and out for four.”

Trevor nodded, though it felt like his head was one big leaden weight. He inhaled deeply, feeling the cool air fill his lungs before holding it, counting in his head.

“Good, just like that,” she praised, a hint of relief in her voice.

With each exhale, Trevor felt a little more weight lift from his chest, though the anxiety still lingered at the edges of his mind like a shadow. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, embarrassed by the way he’d fallen apart in front of everyone.

“Don’t be sorry,” Amanda said, squeezing his shoulder gently. “It happens. You’re human. Just take it one step at a time. Do you need to sit here a bit longer?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I think I can do it now. I just… need a moment.”

“Okay,” she replied, her smile returning as she helped him up. “Let’s take it slow. You’re doing great, Trevor.”

He took a deep breath, feeling the ground beneath him a little more solid. As they walked back toward the bustling set, Trevor inhaled deeply, steeling himself as he stepped back into the fray. One shoot, he reminded himself. Just one shoot. Then he could retreat back into the safety of his own space.

Just one shoot. 

Chapter Text

A cold, biting wind swept across the set, and Trevor could feel his nose beginning to run. His fingers felt almost hot, and a shiver crept its way down his spine. Still, he stood in front of the camera, his hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his thin jacket, trying to project an air of warmth and charm, despite the everpresent chill that gnawed hungrily at his bones.

“Alright, Trevor, let’s see that smile!” called the director, his voice cutting through the sharp air. Trevor forced a grin, but the muscles in his face felt heavy, unresponsive to his commands.

With each passing moment, the cold seeped deeper into his skin, wrapping around him like a vice. He could feel his body growing sluggish as if the chill was leeching away his energy. A shiver raced down his spine, and he fought to keep his teeth from chattering. The tremors in his limbs were becoming harder to control, and he struggled to maintain his focus as he blinked against the blinding sunlight reflected off the cold ground. He wished that they’d chosen a different day to film outside, or that he’d checked the weather radar today, instead of last night.

From the corner of his eye, Trevor spotted Angela glancing over, her expression morphing from casual indifference to concern as she watched him closely. The worry etched on her face made him feel exposed as if she could see straight through the facade he was desperately trying to maintain. He forced himself to smile for the camera, but it felt more like a grimace, the muscles in his face stiff and uncooperative.

“Cut!” The director's shout sliced through the air, and Trevor released a shaky breath, a rush of relief mingled with anxiety as the focus shifted away from him.

Angela quickly made her way over, her brows knitted together, her eyes sharp with concern. “Trevor, you’re shivering. We need to get you out of this weather,” she said, her voice firm yet laced with an urgency that pierced through the fog settling over him.

“I’m fine,” he lied, the words thick and heavy on his tongue, each syllable a struggle as the chill crept deeper into his bones. He could feel the ice settling into his muscles, sapping his strength. The last thing he wanted was to delay the shoot because he was a little cold.

“No, you’re not,” Angela insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She quickly shrugged off her own jacket and draped it around his shoulders, the warmth of her body radiating through the fabric like a lifeline. “Come on, let’s find someplace warm.”

But as the fabric enveloped him, he could barely register the warmth; the cold had seeped so deep that it felt almost foreign. He hugged the jacket tighter around himself, but the tremors continued, a violent shivering he couldn’t control. His fingers felt numb, like they belonged to someone else.

“Trevor, stay with me,” Angela urged, noticing his unsteady stance. “You need to keep moving.”

His body felt heavy, almost weightless as if he were sinking into the ground. “I don’t want to slow things down,” he murmured, feeling weak and vulnerable. The weight of his body pressed down, and his head felt foggy, thoughts jumbling as if trapped in a dream.

“Too bad. You’re more important than the shoot,” she replied, her voice unwavering as she guided him away from the set and toward the nearby office. “We’re getting you out of this weather.”

A dull ache spread through his limbs, a sluggishness that made every movement feel like a monumental effort. Trevor tried to focus on Angela's words, but they began to slip away, lost in a haze that wrapped around his thoughts like a thick fog.

“Trevor,” Angela said, urgency sharpening her voice as she reached out to touch his arm. “Look at me. You need to keep talking. What do you see outside?”

The world felt distant and muted, colors blurring into an indistinct wash as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. 

“The sky is gray,” he managed, his voice thick and slurred, almost unrecognizable to his own ears. “And… there’s snow on the ground.”

“Good. And what else?” Angela urged, squeezing his shoulder

“Trees… bare branches. They look like… fingers,” he said, his words slipping out like whispers. The cold was wrapping around his thoughts, each breath growing shallower, his chest feeling tighter. He could see the concern deepening in Angela's eyes, and it ignited a flicker of panic deep within him.

“Perfect. Just keep talking,” Angela encouraged, her gaze locked onto his, unyielding. She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around him, sharing her body heat in a desperate attempt to keep him conscious and alert. “Help is on the way, okay? Just hold on for me.”

Trevor nodded weakly, but it felt like a monumental effort. The warmth of her body against his was grounding, but the cold that gripped him made it hard to think straight. 

“I… don’t want to be a burden,” he murmured, the admission slipping out before he could stop it.

“Trevor, you’re not a burden,” Angela said fiercely. “You’re my friend, and I’m not going to let you freeze to death. Just hold on for me.”

He could feel her warmth seeping into him, and for a moment, he focused solely on that, on the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his ear. He felt himself slipping, though; the edges of his vision began to blur again, the world fading into a soft gray haze.

“Trevor!” Angela’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and clear. “Stay with me. Look at me.”

He forced his eyes to meet hers, fighting against the pull of darkness. “I’m here,” he managed to say, though it came out as a whisper.

“Good. Just a little longer. You’ve got this,” she encouraged, her grip tightening around him. As she wrapped her arms around him, Trevor felt the warmth of her body against his, but it seemed to fade in and out, the sensation slipping away just as quickly as it arrived. He could feel his heart racing, then slowing again, a strange rhythm he couldn’t quite understand. The world around him grew quieter, the sounds of the crew fading into a distant echo.

“Breathe, Trevor,” she urged, her voice steady. “Just keep talking. Tell me about the trees.”

“Angels… they look like angels,” he said, his words barely forming. “Cold angels.”

“Okay, that’s good. Just hold on for me,” she said, wrapping him in another layer, and he could feel her pulse against his arm, anchoring him in the chaos of his mind.

His teeth began to chatter, a rhythmic clattering that made him acutely aware of how far gone he was. He tried to will his body to respond, to shake off the icy grip that had tightened around him, but it felt like fighting against the current of a relentless tide.

His vision blurred as another wave of dizziness washed over him. He leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor, his head spinning. 

“I can’t… I can’t feel anything,” he admitted, the words barely a whisper. His heart raced, pounding heavily against his ribcage, the rhythm erratic and wild. Each breath felt like it took an eternity to pull in, the air feeling shallow and cold. The world around him had narrowed to just Angela and the biting cold that clawed at his skin.

“I can’t… I can’t think,” he mumbled, feeling his thoughts slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. The panic inside him flared, a desperate fire trying to fight off the encroaching chill. He could hear his own teeth chattering, a rhythmic, involuntary sound.

“Stay with me, Trevor,” Angela said firmly, her grip tightening on his shoulder. “You’re right here, with me. You’re not alone.”

The cold tightened its hold around him, and he felt his eyelids fluttering as fatigue washed over him. He fought against it, refusing to let go, but the struggle became more difficult. Each blink felt heavier, the world dimming further as the biting cold seeped deeper into his bones.

“Just a little longer,” Angela urged, her voice steady, unwavering. “Help is coming. Focus on me. Keep your eyes on me.”

Trevor blinked rapidly, forcing himself to stay present. He could see the worry in her eyes, and somehow that made him fight harder against the overwhelming urge to surrender to the darkness. “I’m trying,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You’re doing amazing,” she replied, her voice warm and steady. “Now, let’s talk. What’s your favorite thing about filming? Let’s think of something happy.”

He hesitated, grasping at fleeting memories, trying to pull one close. “The food… the food we get on set. It’s always so good.” His voice was sluggish, the words slurring together.

Angela smiled, a genuine warmth lighting her features. “Yeah? What’s the best thing you’ve had so far?”

“Um… that pasta… the one with the pesto. So good.” Trevor's thoughts began to drift again, his mind slipping as the world around him swayed. The cold made it hard to focus, hard to hold onto any one thought for long.

“Right? It’s amazing,” she continued, her enthusiasm unwavering. “And remember that time we had tacos? You were so excited.”

“Yeah, tacos…” he mumbled, the memory flickering across his mind. But it felt too far away, like a dream he couldn’t quite remember after waking up.

“Keep talking, Trevor. You’re doing great,” Angela urged, her voice cutting through the haze.

But it was getting harder to string thoughts together. “I don’t… I don’t want to fall asleep,” he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper. The weight of fatigue was pressing down on him, each blink more inviting than the last.

“You won’t. Just keep your eyes on me,” she said, her tone insistent. “Look at me. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

As the seconds passed, the world around him began to shift again, colors fading into a dull blur. Trevor fought against the urge to close his eyes.  The shadows crept closer, threatening to engulf him, but he focused on her, the warmth radiating from her body. 

“I’m trying,” he gasped, desperately clinging to her presence.

“Keep trying,” she urged, her hand resting firmly on his shoulder, grounding him. “Help is coming, Trevor. Just hold on.”

He nodded slowly, though every movement felt heavy. “I don’t want to be… cold anymore,” he admitted, the vulnerability seeping through his words.

“You won’t be. We’ll get you warm, I promise,” Angela said fiercely, her resolve unwavering. “Just a little longer.” As he focused on her voice, he willed himself to stay awake, to hold onto the warmth of her words, determined to keep his eyes open for just a little while longer.

“Hey, look!” Angela said suddenly, her voice brightening with urgency. “There’s the medic! They’re here!”

Trevor's bleary gaze followed her eyes to the figure rushing towards them through the haze of the cold, bundled in a thick winter jacket and carrying a medical bag. Relief washed over him like a wave, but the effort of moving his head to focus on the medic felt like lifting a weight far too heavy.

“Stay with me, Trevor,” Angela urged again, her hand gripping his shoulder tightly as if she could physically pull him back from the brink. “You’re doing so well.”

The medic knelt beside them, assessing the situation with practised ease. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing between Trevor and Angela, his expression shifting from concern to focus.

“He’s hypothermic,” Angela explained quickly, her voice steadier now that help had arrived. “He was freezing out here, and I think he’s slipping in and out of consciousness.”

“Okay, Trevor, can you hear me?” the medic asked, his tone firm but not unkind. “I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?”

Trevor nodded slightly, though it felt like moving through molasses. “Yeah, I… I can hear you,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good. Let’s get you out of this cold.”

Chapter Text

Laughter filled the room as Trevor shuffled the deck of cards, a playful grin lighting up his face. The harsh studio lights reflected off his eyes as he drew the first card with a smooth flourish. His fingers brushed the glossy surface as he scanned the question.

“What’s your biggest fear?” he asked, his voice teasing as his gaze moved around the circle.

Amanda shifted in her seat before leaning in. “Being trapped in an elevator,” she admitted, her voice laced with unease. For a brief moment, the room grew still, her words hanging in the air.

“God, that’s terrifying,” Trevor said, his eyes widening. “I can’t imagine just standing there, staring at the numbers, waiting for help. I’d probably start thinking of every horror movie where the elevator breaks down.”

Amanda chuckled, but a flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. “Right? I’d be the one yelling for help while everyone outside was rolling their eyes.”

Spencer leaned in, his tone light but sincere. “For me, it’s heights. Just the thought of standing on the edge of a cliff freaks me out. Like, what if I just... fall?”

Amanda crossed her arms and leaned back. “Okay, but those are physical fears. What about emotional ones? Like, really opening up to someone, and they don’t like what they see?”

Trevor’s smile faded slightly as he considered her words. “Yeah… being vulnerable is scary. What if they laugh? Or worse, what if they just… leave?”

Arasha’s voice broke through the stillness, soft but sure. “Or even worse, what if they understand, and you realise they’re not who you thought they were?”

Sensing the mood shift, Spencer grabbed another card, determined to lighten things up again. “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face as the group erupted into laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Spencer started, “back in high school, I thought I’d do stand-up at assembly. Halfway through, I blanked on the punchline. Dead silence. So I laughed at my own joke—awkwardly—and then tripped over the mic cord.”

Laughter filled the room again, and the tension dissolved. Trevor shuffled the deck and drew another card. His fingers lingered on the edge as he flipped it over.

“What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

The room stilled once more. Trevor felt a knot in his stomach as the laughter faded into a distant echo. He shifted in his seat. “Uh, I’m not sure I want to go there,” he said, trying to sound light, but his voice wavered.

“Come on, Trevor,” Amanda encouraged, nudging him playfully. “You can’t back out now! We’re all sharing here.”

He glanced around at his castmates, their expressions a mix of curiosity and support. He hesitated, feeling the familiar walls he had built around himself begin to tremble under the weight of his uncertainty. Would they understand? Would they judge?

“Okay, fine. I guess I’ll share,” he said, his voice shaky but resolute. “There’s this part of my life I’ve kept hidden… I don’t know. I just worry about what people will think of me if they really knew.”

As he spoke, a tightening sensation gripped his chest, the walls he had built cracking under the pressure of honesty. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m not enough. Like, I put on this mask of humour to hide how lonely I feel. And it scares me, sharing that with anyone.”

The room fell silent, the lively chatter replaced by a thick stillness as he laid bare his feelings. Trevor felt exposed as if he had stripped away layers of skin, leaving him raw and vulnerable. His gaze fell to the floor, heat rising in his chest as he fought the urge to retreat into himself.

Arasha’s expression shifted from playful to serious, her eyes softening with understanding. “Trevor, you don’t have to hide that part of yourself,” she said gently, her voice almost soothing. “We all have our struggles, and you’re not alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Amanda chimed in, her tone earnest and steady. “We care about you, all of you, even the messy bits.”

“That was brave, man,” Spencer said, breaking the silence with a supportive nod. “But if you want to, we can cut that from the video. Your call.”

Trevor shrugged, feeling his heart still lodged in his throat. The weight of their concern felt both comforting and stifling. “No, it’s fine. I just... I have a job to do, and I don’t want to let these stupid emotions get in the way of that.”

“Okay, one last question before we call it a night,” Trevor suggested, plastering a smile onto his face that felt more like a mask than a genuine expression, as he pulled another card. “What’s your biggest guilty pleasure?”

“Chocolate!” Amanda exclaimed without hesitation, her face lighting up.

Spencer rolled his eyes, laughing. “I guess I should have seen that coming. Mine’s reality TV. It’s trashy, but I can’t stop watching.”

Arasha smiled, joining in. “For me, it’s definitely cheesy romance novels. They’re completely unrealistic, but they’re my escape.”

Trevor chuckled, but the sound felt hollow, echoing back at him like an empty shell. “Well, now I feel like I have to come up with something good. Mine is… terrible dad jokes. The worse, the better.”

“Bring it on!” Spencer challenged, a playful grin on his face. “We need a good laugh to end the shoott!”

“Alright, let me think,” Trevor said, leaning back as he contemplated. “What do you call fake spaghetti?”

The group leaned in, anticipation dancing in the air.

“An impasta!” he declared, breaking into a wide grin as laughter erupted around him, yet he felt disconnected from the joy swirling in the room, like he was watching it from a distance.

They quickly wrapped up filming after that, the studio lights dimming as the last cut of the video faded to black, leaving the sound of clattering equipment and hushed conversations in its wake. As the crew began to pack up, Trevor lingered at the edge of the set, still processing the game. His heart raced as anxiety gnawed at him. What if they saw him differently now? The thought of judgment loomed over him like a storm cloud, threatening to break. He could almost hear Amanda's voice in his head, the gentle encouragement fading into whispers of doubt: What if they laugh? What if they walk away?

As Arasha approached, her brow furrowed with concern, Trevor fought to maintain a facade of composure. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the haze of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Trevor forced a smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “Yeah, I just… didn’t expect to go that deep, you know?” The words came out strained, the facade of lightheartedness crumbling at the edges.

Arasha’s expression shifted, empathy radiating from her gaze. “I get it. But I want you to know that you were really brave for sharing. It takes guts to be vulnerable like that.”

Her words hung in the air, a soothing balm to his anxious heart, but they also stirred a tempest of self-doubt. Brave? Was he brave or just foolish for exposing himself? The fear of being seen as weak flickered in his mind, igniting a familiar flame of insecurity. Was he enough? Too much? He couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps he had overshared, that he had burdened them with his messy emotions when they were all just trying to have fun.

“Thanks, Arasha. I just hope I didn’t make it weird for everyone.” He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze, not wanting to reveal the storm brewing within. The truth was, he felt like an imposter in his own life, someone who masked his loneliness with humour but couldn’t escape the reality of how alone he often felt. Despite the support around him, the gnawing loneliness settled like a heavy fog in his chest, a reminder that no matter how hard he tried, some parts of himself felt too dark to share. He had peeled back the layers he’d carefully constructed, and now the rawness of that honesty felt like an open wound.

As Trevor stood lost in thought, the fading chatter of the crew packing up reminded him of the world outside his head. He took a deep breath, trying to dispel the knot of anxiety clenching his chest, and forced himself to move away from the shadows at the edge of the set.

“Hey, Trevor!” Amanda called, her voice bright as she approached him, her expression a mix of concern and warmth. “You coming to grab some food with us? We’re going to that new Greek place nearby.”

The prospect of food momentarily lifted his spirits, but doubt crept back in. What if he couldn’t shake off the weight of his emotions? What if he ruined the night for everyone else?

“Uh, I think I might just head home,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “Long day and all.”

Amanda's brow furrowed. “Come on, it’ll be fun! We can keep joking around and just relax. You don’t have to go home and stew in your thoughts.”

Trevor glanced at her, the kindness in her eyes stirring a flicker of warmth within him. But the thought of being around everyone, laughing and talking while he felt so out of place, was daunting. He was still grappling with his own vulnerability, and he didn’t want to bring the mood down.

“I appreciate it, but I really need some time to think,” he said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Maybe next time?”

“Alright, but don’t make it a habit,” she said, a hint of playfulness returning to her tone. “We’ll miss you. Just remember, you can always talk to us if you need to. You’re not alone in this.”

With a wave, she turned back to rejoin the others, leaving Trevor standing there with her words echoing in his mind. You’re not alone in this. It was a comforting thought, yet one that felt so distant. He wanted to believe it, but the fear of being seen—truly seen—held him back.

He sighed as he walked out to his car, slamming the door behind him. He hesitated for a moment, before reaching down and grabbing his phone, opening his messages with Spencer.

trev. hey man, u can cut that part of the vid

Chapter Text

The studio lights blared overhead, their relentless brightness casting harsh shadows across the set. Trevor leaned against the cool metal of a prop, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on him like a thick fog. The last few days had blurred into an endless cycle of filming and editing, and he could feel the gnawing fatigue creep into his bones. Each joke and each skit felt heavier and more draining than the last.

“Alright, everybody! Let’s take it from the top!” the director called, snapping Trevor from his daze. He forced a smile, pushing through the weariness that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn’t want to let anyone down. They were counting on him.

But as the cameras rolled, Trevor felt a strange shift in his perception. The bright studio lights flickered momentarily, and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a figure moving in the shadows at the edge of the set. He blinked, dismissing it, but the fleeting image lingered, twisting in his mind like a half-formed dream.

The world around him began to shift and warp, the walls bending and stretching as if they were alive. The edges of the set seemed to melt into one another, colours swirling in a surreal dance. Trevor blinked rapidly, trying to shake the images loose, but they clung stubbornly to his vision.

“Trevor, you’re up!” shouted Spencer, his voice snapping Trevor back to the present. He stumbled forward, words tumbling from his lips in a hurried mess. But as he moved, the floor seemed to ripple beneath him, warping like a funhouse mirror. The laughter of his colleagues morphed into a cacophony of whispers, indistinguishable and mocking.

“Hey, you good?” Spencer’s voice cut through the haze, a thread of clarity in the chaos. Trevor turned to him, momentarily surprised to find Spencer standing so close, concern etched on his features. But even Spencer’s face began to shift, his features blurring and reshaping like a watercolour painting left out in the rain.

“I’m fine,” Trevor replied, but the words felt hollow, echoes from a distant place. The studio lights began to pulsate rhythmically, casting odd shadows that leapt and flickered on the walls, morphing into creatures with elongated limbs and hollow eyes. He swayed, caught in the ebb and flow of something he couldn’t grasp, the boundary between reality and the hallucinations blurring further.

“Trevor?” Spencer reached out, his hand steadying Trevor’s shoulder. The contact jolted Trevor, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. “You don’t look fine. Talk to me.”

Trevor’s mind raced, searching for the right words, but nothing coherent formed. Instead, he found himself staring past Spencer, his gaze drifting toward the corners of the set where the shadows pooled. They seemed to writhe, dark shapes dancing just beyond his reach, whispering secrets he couldn't decipher. A giant eye flickered open in the shadows, locking onto him, filled with a knowing hunger that made his skin crawl.

“Focus on me,” Spencer urged, his voice steady and reassuring, pulling Trevor back from the brink. “I’m right here. Just breathe.”

Trevor clenched his eyes shut, trying to drown out the phantom visions. “I see... I see things,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “Like... shadows. They’re moving, Spencer. They’re watching me.”

“Shadows?” Spencer echoed, his brow furrowing. He stepped closer, keeping his tone light and calm. “Just shadows, man. It’s the studio lights playing tricks. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

The warmth of Spencer’s presence wrapped around Trevor, and he focused on it like a lifeline. He took a deep breath, attempting to anchor himself in the moment. “Yeah... yeah, shadows,” he repeated, trying to convince himself. But as he looked back at the set, the shadows began to twist and coil, taking on forms he couldn't comprehend, monstrous figures that reached out with clawed hands, beckoning him to join them.

Trevor's heart raced, the sensation of being pulled in two directions overwhelming him. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pressure build, and when he opened them again, the shadows had coalesced into a flickering scene—a distorted reflection of the set where he stood, with exaggerated features and warped laughter echoing from every corner. It felt as if he were standing inside a painting, colours bleeding into one another, creating a landscape where nothing was as it should be.

“I... I don’t want to see this,” Trevor gasped, a shuddering breath escaping his lips. “It’s too much!”

“Then focus on my voice,” Spencer insisted, his hand still firm on Trevor’s shoulder, grounding him. “You’re safe. You’re right here, with your friends. Just look at me.”

Trevor met Spencer’s gaze, and for a moment, the phantoms receded slightly, their grasp on him loosening. As the cameras rolled and the scene continued, Trevor's grip on reality still felt tenuous, but Spencer’s presence anchored him enough to keep going. He could hear the familiar hum of the equipment, the chatter of the crew, and the soft whir of the camera lenses adjusting focus. Yet, the edges of his vision remained unfocused, swimming with flickering shapes that vanished whenever he tried to look directly at them.

Trevor moved through his lines on autopilot, his mind fighting to keep itself tethered to the real world. The set lights pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and every now and then, a dark tendril would creep out from the corners, curling along the floor like smoke. He was beginning to question if they were real. Each time he tried to focus, the dark shapes twisted and blurred, always staying just out of reach, like memories slipping away as he tried to recall them.

Between takes, Spencer stayed close, subtly guiding Trevor through the motions without drawing attention from the rest of the crew. He would hand Trevor a water bottle or offer him a quiet joke, his steady presence acting as a lifeline. Trevor was grateful, but he was also frustrated. His vision was playing tricks on him—everything had an unnatural shimmer, and even the simplest tasks seemed monumental, like walking on uneven ground that constantly shifted beneath his feet.

“Almost done, man. Hang in there,” Spencer whispered during a break in filming.

Trevor nodded, but his throat felt tight. He leaned in closer to Spencer, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know what’s real anymore, Spence.”

Spencer’s eyes flickered with concern, but he kept his voice calm and even. “You’re on set. We’re filming the last few scenes, then we’re heading home. Nothing else matters right now except getting through this, okay? One more take.”

Trevor swallowed hard and nodded, feeling a wave of dizziness roll over him. He blinked rapidly as the room tilted slightly, the walls bending and curving like the inside of a funhouse. One of the stage lights seemed to have a face now, its bulbous head grinning at him with sharp, glowing teeth. He quickly looked away, focusing on Spencer again, who appeared rock-solid in comparison to everything else.

“All right, places!” the director called.

Trevor took a deep breath and positioned himself for the final shot. The directions were simple—just deliver the outro, just him speaking to the camera. But the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Trevor’s vision split. The room seemed to fold in on itself, and suddenly he was looking at multiple versions of the set, layered over one another like a deck of cards. Each version of himself moved at different speeds, some fast, some slow, some frozen in place entirely. He wasn’t sure which one was the real him anymore.

His pulse quickened, and his breath became shallow. Was he speaking? Were his lips moving? He tried to find Spencer, but in the chaos of the overlapping images, even Spencer was split into distorted duplicates, their faces blurring into abstract shapes. The world seemed to echo around him, each sound distorted and hollow, as if he were trapped inside a tunnel.

Then, just as he felt himself slipping, Spencer’s voice cut through the madness like a beacon. “Trevor!” he called, sharp but steady, pulling Trevor back from the brink.

Trevor blinked hard, the distorted images flickering like a broken projector. “I can’t… I can’t do this,” he muttered, shaking his head.

But Spencer was there, stepping into his line of sight, standing firm, and real. “Yes, you can,” he said, locking eyes with Trevor. “You’re almost done. Just focus on me.”

Trevor swallowed the rising panic, focusing on Spencer’s face as everything else around him swirled like a storm. Slowly, the world began to reassemble itself, the multiple versions of the set collapsing back into one. The distorted, twisted shapes faded, and once again, he was just standing in the studio, surrounded by familiar faces.

With a deep breath, Trevor looked back at the camera and delivered his outro. The punchline of whatever joke his mind inserted landed, and as the crew erupted into laughter, Trevor’s sense of relief was overwhelming. The director called “Cut!” and the room was suddenly filled with the bustling energy of wrapping up.

Trevor slumped into his chair, rubbing his temples as the edges of his vision continued to ripple, but the hallucinations were fading. Spencer sat beside him, giving him a gentle nudge. “You did it, man.”

Trevor managed a tired smile. “Barely.”

“You still did,” Spencer said, his voice a quiet reassurance. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The crew seemed to be oblivious. They were packing up, chatting about plans for the weekend, completely unaware of the shadows and shifting realities that had plagued him. But Spencer knew. 

As they walked toward the door, the last of the shadows melted into the dimming studio lights, leaving Trevor feeling lighter than he had in days. The hallucinations were gone for now, but the exhaustion lingered heavily, and he knew he couldn’t push himself like this again.

“Sleep,” Spencer said with a grin, opening the exit door. “And maybe lay off the coffee for a bit.”

“Yeah,” Trevor laughed weakly, stepping into the cool night air. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Chapter Text

The sun was merciless that day, hanging high in the cloudless sky and pressing down on the set like a weight. Trevor could feel the heat sinking into his bones, each breath shallow and labored as the temperature climbed. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat, but he brushed off the discomfort, convincing himself it was nothing. There was work to be done. They were close to wrapping. He could push through—just a little longer.

But his body had other plans.

The first signs were subtle, almost easy to dismiss. His vision blurred around the edges, and he blinked several times, trying to clear it. A dull, pulsing headache had taken root behind his eyes, like a slow drumbeat, but he shrugged it off. He'd filmed in the heat before—this wasn’t new. He pressed forward, moving through the set with sheer determination, but with each step, the weight on his chest grew heavier.

His heart was next to betray him. By the time the next take was called, it was pounding in his ears, each beat too fast, too loud, as though trying to escape his ribcage. He felt a strange tingling across his skin, as if it were too tight, stretched thin over his overheating body. His hands trembled when he reached for the prop, barely able to hold it steady. His body was moving through the motions, but his mind felt detached, watching everything from a distance like it wasn’t happening to him.

Just one more scene, he kept telling himself. Just one more.

His legs felt like they were filled with lead, growing heavier by the second. The world around him started to tilt, a subtle spin that made him grit his teeth and push harder. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, soaking his collar, but instead of relief, it only intensified the suffocating heat wrapping around him like a vice. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry, and the air in his throat was thick, like breathing through a damp towel. No matter how hard he tried to pull in air, it wasn’t enough.

Trevor’s knees buckled, and a wave of nausea crashed over him, sharp and sudden, as though his body was rebelling against him. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, and the world blurred even more. He could hear voices around him, but they sounded muffled, distorted, like he was hearing them from underwater. His heart was a wild, erratic thud in his chest, speeding up uncontrollably, the irregular rhythm rattling through him.

He blinked again, harder this time, desperate to focus. The lines he’d memorized for the scene vanished from his mind completely. There was only heat. The sun pressed in from above, the ground radiating up from below. He was trapped between them, suffocating under the weight of it. His vision darkened, the world narrowing into a tunnel, until there was nothing but the heat and the pounding in his skull.

His knees gave way, finally, and he stumbled once, twice, before everything went black.

When Trevor hit the ground, it felt like falling into nothingness. There was no impact, no pain, just sudden, complete darkness.

Time passed in strange, disjointed fragments. He drifted in and out, aware of hands on him, shifting him, but unable to summon the strength to react. His body felt far away, distant and foreign, as if it didn’t belong to him anymore. The heat still clung to him, relentless, but then—something cool. Water, maybe? He couldn’t tell.

Through the fog, he heard his name—Courtney’s voice, steady but edged with panic. "Trevor, can you hear me?"

He tried to respond, but his tongue felt thick, too heavy to form words. His head lolled to the side, and even though his eyes were closed, the light was too bright, burning through his eyelids. He forced them open, but they only fluttered before closing again. The world around him was a blur of color and sound, distant, like it wasn’t fully real.

Cool water dripped down his neck, and he felt hands fanning him, the movements rhythmic and gentle. The sensation was soothing, but it was like he was outside his own body, watching from somewhere far away. His limbs refused to move. His chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths, each one more strained than the last.

Another wave of nausea hit, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he was going to pass out again. His heart continued its erratic thumping, too fast, the uneven rhythm making his head throb. He heard Courtney’s voice again, closer now, but it sounded like she was speaking through a tunnel, the words lost in the buzzing that filled his ears.

The world faded in and out of focus. Each time he resurfaced, the heat was still there, thick and oppressive, but Courtney’s presence was a tether, grounding him. She didn’t leave his side, even as others rushed over, talking hurriedly. He could feel her hand on his arm, her fingers pressing against his skin, steadying him.

In the back of his mind, Trevor knew he was in serious trouble. He’d pushed himself too far, ignored the warning signs for too long. His body had finally given in, crumpling under the weight of the heat, and there was no pushing through anymore.

The medics arrived, and he barely registered their hands on him, checking his pulse, taking his temperature. He blinked up at the sky, his vision still blurred, the harsh light piercing through the haze. His chest burned with each breath, but gradually, he felt his heart rate slowing, the cool water and shade beginning to pull him back from the edge.

He caught a glimpse of Courtney’s face through the fog, her worried expression softening as she saw him coming around.

“I’m okay,” Trevor rasped, though the words felt foreign, disconnected from the weight of what had just happened. His tongue was still thick, his throat dry, but he forced the words out, not sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

Chapter Text

Trevor couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. The days seemed to be blurred together in a relentless cycle of work, chaos, and the hollow, looming quiet that filled the spaces between. Trevor barely noticed the ache in his limbs anymore. It had started as a dull throb days ago, creeping in like a warning, but he ignored it. There wasn’t time to slow down. If he kept busy, kept his hands moving, he could outrun the weight pressing down on him, the gnawing thoughts that had taken root in his mind.

He paced back and forth across the Smosh studio, his movements jerky and too fast. His hands fidgeted, picking at the threads of his worn-out hoodie sleeve, the one he hadn’t taken off in days. The one that smelled faintly of coffee, sweat, and long nights where he tried—and failed—to sleep on the couch in his apartment. He’d just been so busy that trivial things such as sleeping and making meals at home seemed like a waste of time. Whatever needed doing, he did it. And when there was nothing left on his list, he made more, just to avoid the quiet.

The crew had started noticing. He could feel their eyes on him, could hear the whispers when they thought he was too far away. Amanda had mentioned something offhand earlier about his “unhinged energy,” but he’d laughed it off. He was fine.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

He wasn’t hungry. His stomach was a twisted knot, but he couldn’t remember when he last ate. His breakfast this morning had been a half-empty energy drink from some shoot yesterday, and lunch? Who had time for lunch?

His head pounded, a dull ache that pulsed behind his eyes, and the world around him felt just a little too bright, the sounds just a little too sharp. He didn’t care. As long as he kept moving, kept doing something , the anxiety clawing at his chest stayed at bay. When his hands were moving, his head was too busy to worry what people on the internet thought of him. 

He walked over to his desk and sat down, clicking through the footage of the latest shoot for his own personal channel, revived to give him something to do. The video was almost done, but Trevor felt compelled to tweak it. There had to be something wrong with it, something to fix. Something to control. His fingers danced over the keyboard, rapid and careless, the lines of code and timeline cuts blurring together. He barely registered what he was changing anymore, just that he needed to keep moving. Stopping meant thinking. Stopping meant—

"Hey, Trevor." Arasha’s voice startled him. He hadn’t even heard her come in.

He kept his eyes glued to the screen. "Busy."

“I can see that," she said, her voice calm but laced with concern. "But you’ve been at this for hours. When’s the last time you took a break?"

“I don’t need a break,” he muttered. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the mouse until his knuckles turned white. He clicked through more footage—stuff he’d already reviewed three times—but it didn’t matter. Maybe he’d catch something he missed this time, something that the comments would’ve torn him apart over.

Arasha sighed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway. "Trevor, you’re burning yourself out."

"I’m good," he shot back, a little too fast, a little too sharp. "Just need to get this done."

"You're going to get it done half-conscious if you keep going like this," she said, stepping closer. Her presence loomed, and it made him itch with unease. She wasn’t the type to push, but there was something about the way she was watching him now that made him want to disappear.

Trevor slammed the mouse down, the loud click echoing in the room. He stood up, the sudden movement making the room tilt dangerously. His head spun, and his legs felt like they were made of lead, but he forced himself to stand. Don’t show weakness. Keep it together.

"I told you, I’m fine," he snapped, his voice raw. But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

"Trevor…" Arasha’s tone softened. “When was the last time you ate?"

He tried to think. When had it been? Yesterday? No, maybe the day before. But that was irrelevant. He had work to do. “I don’t need you to—”

Before he could finish, the floor seemed to slip out from under him. His knees buckled, and suddenly he was on the ground, blinking up at the ceiling, Arasha’s wide eyes peering down at him.

“Trevor!” She crouched beside him, reaching out to steady him as his body fought to catch up with what had just happened.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he mumbled, his voice weaker now, disoriented. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, the weight of exhaustion finally winning out.

“No, you’re not,” Arasha said firmly, though her hand was gentle as she pressed him back down. “You’re running yourself ragged. I’ve been watching you do this for days, and you’re not fooling anyone.”

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, frustration welling up inside him. He didn’t want to be here, like this—helpless on the floor, exposed. He couldn’t handle this.

Arasha’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts. "You can’t keep going like this. You’re going to collapse for real next time, and there won’t be anyone around to catch you."

He wanted to argue, to brush her off, but his body felt too heavy, too worn out. And somewhere deep down, he knew she was right. But all he could do was sigh and turn back the screen. He was vaguely aware of Arasha walking away, and guilt blossomed in his chest.

As Trevor sat hunched over his desk, the blue light from the screencast sharp shadows across his face. His eyes stung, dry from hours of staring at the footage, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t blinked in what felt like forever, and his hands trembled as they hovered over the keyboard, jittery from the endless stream of caffeine he'd consumed. Another energy drink sat untouched beside him. He’d lost count of how many he’d had that evening. Three? Five? It didn’t matter, as long as it drowned out the sad guilt that ate away at him. Maybe he should’ve listened to Arasha. Maybe he should take a break. But then the thoughts would have nothing to drown them out, and that scared Trevor more than he cared to admit.

He scrubbed through the footage again, watching the same scene play out for the fiftieth time. It was fine. Perfect, even. But his brain wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let him stop.

His heart pounded, the steady thump-thump-thump of anxiety pressing against his ribs, and he could feel the beginnings of a migraine creeping in behind his eyes. He glanced at the clock. 2:14 AM.

Everyone else had gone home hours ago, leaving him alone in the studio, surrounded by half-finished scripts and crumpled notes. The emptiness should’ve been comforting—he didn’t have to pretend everything was fine when no one was around to see him unravel—but it wasn’t. The silence felt oppressive, thick with his own exhaustion and the buzzing thoughts he couldn’t quiet.

Trevor reached for the mouse again, fingers sluggish and uncoordinated. He was making mistakes now—little ones he wouldn’t have let slide before. A cut that was a millisecond too late, a joke that didn’t quite land. His hands weren’t working the way they were supposed to, and his vision swam every time he looked up from the screen.

But still, he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant dealing with everything he wasn’t ready to face.

The knot in his stomach tightened, but he ignored it. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast—some dry granola bar he’d grabbed on his way to the studio—but the gnawing hunger didn’t feel real anymore. Just another discomfort to push through.

His phone buzzed on the desk, a message from Amanda. 

manda. Hey, you good? Haven’t seen you around lately.

He stared at it for a moment, too tired to come up with a reply. His fingers hovered over the screen before he tossed the phone aside. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

His head throbbed harder, the sharp pulse of pain making it harder to focus. Trevor leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, only to find it greasy and matted. He hadn’t showered in—what? Two days? Three?

His mind was a fog, everything blending together into one long, endless stretch of work and exhaustion. He closed his eyes, trying to force the pain away, but the room swayed around him. He blinked hard, pushing himself up from the desk, needing to move—to do something.

But the second he stood, his legs buckled beneath him. He crashed down hard, knees hitting the floor with a sickening thud. His vision swam, the edges going black, and the world tilted dangerously. He could feel his heart racing, too fast, too wild.

He didn’t even have time to process it before everything blurred out.

Trevor hit the floor, the impact reverberating through his already worn-out body, but the pain didn’t register. His mind was a haze, disoriented and detached, his thoughts sluggish as if he were swimming through thick molasses. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, and somewhere in the fog of his brain, he knew something was seriously wrong.

He blinked, struggling to focus on anything, but the world was spinning. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, loud and erratic, each thud too quick, too frantic, like his body was spiraling out of control. Panic clawed at his chest, but it felt distant, like a scream muffled behind glass.

The overhead lights blurred into a harsh glow above him, bright and glaring, and Trevor tried to move—to push himself up—but his limbs felt disconnected, heavy as lead. His hands trembled as he reached for the desk, trying to grab hold of something, anything, but his fingers slipped uselessly, grasping at air.

Trevor had been running on fumes for days, but he'd learned to shove the discomfort into the background. The dull throb in his limbs was easy to ignore. It had started subtly—a nagging ache in his side he'd assumed was from sitting hunched over for too long, but he’d brushed it off.

Now, as he sat on the studio floor, knees drawn up, and his mind a tangled mess of exhaustion and frustration, a sharp, searing pain shot through him. He doubled over, one hand gripping his side, and for the first time, he realized something was wrong. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, as his fingers instinctively pressed against the ache, only to feel a sticky warmth spread under his hoodie.

What the hell?

He looked down, pulling his hand away, and blinked. His fingers were stained red. Blood.

His pulse quickened, panic creeping up his spine. How long had this been there? When did he get hurt? The questions swirled in his mind, but they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. His vision blurred, the pounding in his head intensifying as his body finally betrayed the damage he'd been ignoring. The pain, once dulled by adrenaline and stubbornness, was now undeniable.

“Trevor!”

A voice cut through the haze. It was sharp, alarmed, but it felt far away, like it was coming from somewhere outside of his spinning, collapsing world. He blinked again, trying to focus, to clear the fog in his head, but it only made his vision blur more.

Suddenly, there were hands on him—firm, steady hands pulling him up from the floor. Trevor’s head lolled to the side, his body too weak to resist, too drained to fight against the exhaustion that had finally overwhelmed him.

“Trevor, hey, hey!” It was Arasha. Her voice was tight with worry now, no longer the gentle, patient tone she’d used earlier. “You’re okay, just breathe. You’re alright.”

But Trevor wasn’t sure if that was true. He didn’t feel alright. He felt like he was unraveling, like his body had finally betrayed him after days of ignoring every warning sign. His hands clutched weakly at her arm, a futile attempt to steady himself, but he had no strength left. His side throbbed, and he heard Arasha draw a sharp breath.

"Oh my god, you’re bleeding." She reached for his hoodie, gently lifting the fabric to assess the wound. Trevor winced but didn’t stop her.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He gave her a weak shrug, his head hanging. "Didn’t wanna slow anyone down," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Didn’t think it was… this bad. I’m fine... I just—"

“No, you’re not,” Arasha said firmly, her grip tightening as she helped him sit back against the desk. “You’re not fine, Trevor. You haven’t been fine for a while now.”

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of her words crashing over him like a wave. He knew she was right, but admitting it felt like giving up. For so long, he had convinced himself that if he just kept going, kept working, he could outrun whatever was pulling him under. But now, sitting there on the floor with his body trembling and his vision swimming, he realized he’d pushed too far. How did he even get this wound in his side?

Thinking back, he groaned as he placed the incident. He’d been rushing, hands trembling as he tried to juggle three things at once in the prop room. He barely had time to focus, adrenaline coursing through him, fueling every decision. One wrong step, a misjudged reach for a box that wasn’t as stable as it looked—and the whole shelf came crashing down. The impact knocked him back, and something sharp, maybe a stray metal corner from a broken shelf, had slashed across his side. The sting had been instant, but Trevor, ever the overworked, stressed-out perfectionist, brushed it off. No time to stop. No time to worry.

He’d slapped a towel over the cut, changed his hoodie and kept moving, pretending that he wasn’t in pain. But every time he bent down, every time he stretched his arms, he felt it—a slow burn turning into a steady, deep ache. For three days he’d ached, and ignored, and now his body couldn’t take it anymore/.

He’d told himself that he was fine. He had to be. The shoot was already running late, and everyone was counting on him to finish what needed to be done. Stopping hadn’t been an option. So he gritted his teeth and forced himself through the rest of the days, brushing off any signs that something was wrong.

But now, with Arasha’s concerned eyes on him, he couldn’t pretend anymore.

The blood had soaked through his hoodie, more than he thought, and the adrenaline that had kept him numb was now fading fast, leaving only pain in its place. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push through the dizziness, but his head swam, and every breath made the wound throb.

"Trevor," Arasha’s voice softened, laced with concern. "This is serious. You need stitches or something. I don’t know how deep it is, but it’s not something we can ignore anymore."

He opened his eyes, barely able to focus on her face. "I didn’t… I didn’t want to let anyone down."

Arasha knelt closer, her hands steady as she pressed down on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "You’re not letting anyone down. But you will if you keep pushing yourself to the point of collapse. I get that you want to be strong, that you don’t want to be a burden, but this isn’t strength. This is self-destruction, Trev."

Her words cut deeper than the wound, striking the core of the guilt and fear that had been eating at him for weeks. He had pushed himself because he didn’t know how to stop. Because every time he slowed down, the weight of expectations—his own and everyone else’s—pressed down harder.

"I… I don’t know how to stop," he admitted, his voice breaking, the vulnerability in his words raw and unfamiliar. “I thought if I slowed down... everything would fall apart.”

Arasha’s expression softened, the concern still there, but now it was mixed with something else—understanding. She let go of the towel for a moment, brushing her fingers lightly over his arm, grounding him in the moment. Arasha sighed, her expression softening even more. “Trevor, you’re not holding the world together on your own. It’s okay to take a break. It’s okay to ask for help.”

Trevor looked at her, the exhaustion in his bones finally winning the battle he’d been waging all day. "I don’t know how to ask for help," he whispered.

"You don’t have to have the right words," she said softly, "just… start with this. Let me take care of you right now."

He nodded, too tired to resist any longer, letting the tension in his shoulders fall as he leaned into her support. As the room dimmed around him and his body sank into the weight of his injuries, Trevor finally allowed himself the grace to be human.

"I’ll call someone, get you to the hospital," Arasha said, still holding him steady as she dialed her phone. Her presence, her calm, was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, barely able to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to... I just...”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Arasha said softly, kneeling in front of him. Her hands were still steady, grounding him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Trevor let himself lean on someone else. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Trevor’s eyes fluttered open, and he forced himself to look at her, though the effort felt monumental. Arasha’s face was tight with worry, but there was no judgment there, no anger—just concern, the kind that made his chest ache. Trevor wanted to argue, to tell her she didn’t understand, but the fight had drained out of him. He was too tired, too broken to keep pretending he had it all under control. His body had betrayed him, and now, sitting there on the cold studio floor, he couldn’t deny that he’d pushed too far. He couldn’t keep running.

Arasha stood up slowly, still holding onto his arm to make sure he stayed upright. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s get you somewhere you can lay down while we wait.”

Trevor nodded weakly, too exhausted to argue, too drained to resist. He let her pull him to his feet, his legs wobbling underneath him, but Arasha held him steady. 

As Arasha helped Trevor stand, her grip steady against his shaky balance, she gave him a small, knowing smile. “You’re probably wondering why I’m still here, huh?”

Trevor blinked, leaning on her as they made their way toward the couch. “Yeah,” he mumbled, voice still rough. “Why are you here so late? Thought everyone went home.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I was supposed to. But I noticed you hadn’t left. Figured someone should make sure you didn’t turn into a zombie editing videos all night.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a tired grunt. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well…” Arasha shrugged, guiding him to sit down. “I’ve been here enough to know your patterns, Trevor. The others might not say anything, but I’ve seen you go down this road before. Working yourself into the ground isn’t exactly a new habit for you.”

Trevor sighed, his head falling back against the couch cushions. He couldn’t argue with that. He knew she’d seen it all before—the late nights, the overworking, the complete disregard for his own health. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and he hated that it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“So, what, you stayed just to babysit me?” he asked, trying for a teasing tone, but his voice was too worn-out to pull it off.

Arasha raised an eyebrow at him, arms crossing as she leaned against the back of the couch. “Not quite. I was finishing up some stuff too. But once I realized you were still here, I figured I’d better stick around. You weren’t exactly subtle with how you’ve been acting.”

Trevor winced. “Was it that obvious?”

“Trevor, you’ve been pacing the office like a wired-up squirrel, wearing the same hoodie for, what, three days?” She gave him a pointed look. “Yeah, it’s been pretty obvious.”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Great.”

Arasha’s voice softened, her teasing tone fading into something gentler. “I’m just saying—you’re not as invisible as you think you are. People notice when you’re not taking care of yourself. I noticed.” She paused, sitting beside him. “And I care, okay? That’s why I’m still here.”

Trevor glanced over at her, guilt and gratitude swirling in his chest. “I didn’t mean to make anyone worry.”

“I know,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “But you did. And you’re allowed to worry about yourself too, you know? It doesn’t make you weak.”

Trevor didn’t have a response to that. He just let her words settle in, heavy but somehow comforting, like they were giving him permission to stop pretending for a little while. For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, he let someone else take the weight off his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Trevor leaned against the cold metal of the Smosh studio wall, trying to catch his breath. He had been filming all day, and while he loved the adrenaline rush of being in front of the camera, something was off, and he only now felt it. A dull ache throbbed in his side, a reminder of the stunt they had just finished. It hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but now, as the laughter of his friends faded into the distance, he realized he should’ve taken it more seriously.

Maybe throwing himself into the couch wasn’t the best idea in the world, and he winced as he remembered the way his ribs crunched as he hit the solid back behind the cushions. Yeah, definitely not the best idea in the world.

“Just winded,” he whispered, more to convince himself than anyone else. He stretched, attempting to loosen the knot of discomfort lodged in his ribs, but the motion sent a sharp stab of pain through him, brightening the edges of his vision with a flare.

“Trevor? You okay?” Shayne’s voice echoed down the hallway, accompanied by the soft thud of approaching footsteps. Trevor’s heart raced. Of course Shayne had come looking.

“Yeah, I’m good—just need a sec.” He forced a grin, hoping it might be enough to put Shayne at ease. But as he leaned forward, clutching his side, his vision wavered, and the smile faltered.

Shayne appeared around the corner, his brow creased with concern as his eyes scanned Trevor’s pale face. “You don’t look good.”

Trevor tried to brush it off. “It’s nothing.” But even to him, the words lacked conviction. The lights overhead seemed too bright, pulsing with an intensity that made his head swim.

Shayne crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Nothing? You’re sweating. What’s going on—did you hurt your side?”

Trevor hesitated, not wanting to admit how bad it was. The throbbing had spread, and panic gnawed at him, creeping into the edges of his thoughts. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.

“Let me see,” Shayne pressed, his concern hardening into something more resolute.

Before Trevor could argue, Shayne was by his side, lifting the edge of his shirt. Trevor flinched as Shayne’s fingers brushed over the darkening bruise. “What the hell happened?”

“I told you, it’s nothing,” Trevor gritted out, but the lie wavered under Shayne’s steady gaze.

“This isn’t just a bruise.” Shayne’s voice had a rough edge to it, his worry flaring into frustration. “You’ve gotta stop downplaying this.”

Trevor swallowed, the pain blooming sharper with every breath. “We’ve still got a shoot to finish.”

Shayne’s eyes rolled, exasperation battling with concern. “Forget the shoot. We need to get you checked out. You might have a fracture.”

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Trevor shot back, though his voice trembled. Weakness was something he despised, something he couldn’t afford to show. “That’s only for emergencies. This is a mild discomfort.”

Shayne's lips quirked, but his eyes were serious. “You’re not invincible, man. This looks pretty close to an emergency to me.”

Trevor's chest tightened, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his pain. He leaned harder against the wall as nausea surged, the world tilting beneath him. “I—” he began, but the words dissolved into silence. His body betrayed him, the ache growing unbearable.

“Whoa, easy.” Shayne caught him, guiding him to sit before Trevor’s legs gave out completely. The coolness of the tile was a small relief against his overheated skin.

“I’m fine,” Trevor protested, voice barely audible now, but Shayne was already pulling out his phone.

“No, you’re not,” Shayne said firmly, the calm authority in his voice cutting through Trevor’s haze. “This isn’t a time to play tough.”

Trevor let his head fall back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut against the pain. “I don’t want to be a burden,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Shayne paused, the weight of the moment settling between them. “You’re not a burden,” he said softly. “You’re my friend. Let me help.”

The sincerity in Shayne’s voice made Trevor’s throat tighten. He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. “Okay,” he whispered, finally yielding. “Just… don’t let them stick me in an ambulance. I really can’t afford that right now.”

Shayne gave a small laugh, the tension between them easing just a little. “No promises, but I’ll try.”

Chapter Text

Trevor sat slumped in a corner of the couch, his eyes barely open, dark circles etched beneath them like bruises. His hand absentmindedly fiddled with the deck of cards in front of him, barely registering the laughter and chaos from the rest of the Smosh crew in the room. They were in the middle of shooting Board AF, but his mind wasn’t there. The bright lights, the echo of jokes, the clatter of game pieces—it all blended together into a muffled haze. His eyes, half-lidded, stared blankly at the cards in his hand, like he couldn’t quite remember what game they were even playing. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on his eyelids.

Shayne, sitting across the table, had been watching Trevor for the last hour. It wasn’t like Trevor to zone out like this. Normally, he was sharp, cracking jokes in quick succession, throwing himself into every bit. But today, his usual energy was nowhere to be found. There were faint tremors in his hands as he fiddled with the cards, and every so often, his head would dip lower, like it was getting harder and harder to hold it up.

Shayne furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing as Trevor’s head lolled forward for what seemed like the hundredth time. Trevor jerked awake, blinking rapidly as if he could shake the exhaustion from his body, but the effort only made him look more worn out.

Shayne leaned across the table. “Hey, man. You okay?” His voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the general noise without attracting too much attention.

Trevor rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers dragging over the bags under his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just… tired. Been a long week, y’know?” He gave a weak laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His voice was hoarse, weighed down with exhaustion.

Shayne didn’t buy it. He’d been around Trevor long enough to know when something was wrong. He knew about the all-nighters Trevor had been pulling recently. It wasn’t uncommon for them to push themselves, especially when deadlines loomed or they wanted to perfect something, but Trevor looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His movements were slow, his eyelids heavy, and his words kept trailing off mid-sentence as if he was forgetting what he was talking about halfway through.

“Yeah, I know,” Shayne muttered, glancing around the set. The game was still going, but all he could focus on was Trevor, who was fading fast.

Trevor swayed again, his hand knocking into the water glass in front of him, sending it teetering dangerously close to the edge. Shayne shot out his hand, steadying the glass before it could spill. That was the final straw.

“Alright, that’s it,” Shayne said, standing up with a quick and decisive motion. He ignored the confused glances from the crew, his full attention locked on Trevor, who was blinking slowly, struggling to stay awake. “We’re taking a break.”

Trevor’s head snapped up, or at least he tried to make it look that way, but his reaction was sluggish, his eyes barely registering Shayne’s words. “What? No, we’re still—still shooting, right?” His voice was a murmur, almost lost in the noise of the room. He shifted in his seat, trying to sit up straighter, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

Shayne came around the table and placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. It was gentle but firm, a quiet reassurance that Trevor didn’t have the energy to push away. “You need to rest,” Shayne said, his tone softer now, but no less serious. “You’re about to pass out in the middle of the shoot.”

Trevor opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. His eyelids fluttered again, and Shayne could practically see the internal battle he was fighting, trying to stay awake, trying to push through the exhaustion that was consuming him.

“I’m fine,” Trevor mumbled, but even as he said it, his head lolled forward again, chin dipping toward his chest. His voice sounded far away, barely more than a whisper.

“Trevor, you’re not fine.” Shayne’s voice held that note of finality, that no-nonsense tone he slipped into when someone was about to make a bad decision. He didn’t care if the cameras were still rolling, or if they were in the middle of a game. Trevor was on the verge of collapse, and Shayne wasn’t about to let that happen.

Without another word, Shayne looped an arm under Trevor’s and gently pulled him to his feet. Trevor’s legs wobbled beneath him, his body leaning heavily into Shayne as they moved. Shayne could feel the exhaustion radiating off him, every muscle slack with fatigue. Trevor barely resisted, too drained to protest as Shayne steered him away from the table and toward the worn-out couch at the side of the room.

“Shayne, I’m good, I just… just need to finish…” Trevor mumbled incoherently, his feet dragging against the floor.

Shayne ignored him, focusing on getting him to the couch. He gently pushed Trevor down onto the cushions, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder as Trevor’s body sank into the softness. Trevor’s eyes fluttered, trying to stay open, but they were losing the fight fast.

Shayne grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair, shaking it out before draping it over Trevor’s hunched frame. “Just rest for a bit,” Shayne said softly. He crouched down beside him, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground, man. It’s okay to take a break.”

Trevor blinked slowly, his breath shallow and uneven, like he was still trying to argue, but his words were slurred and distant. “Can’t… we gotta finish…”

“We can finish later. Right now, you need to sleep.”

For a moment, Trevor didn’t respond, his breathing evening out as the warmth of the blanket and the soft cushions began to pull him under. He shifted slightly, letting out a tired sigh, like all the tension in his body was finally starting to melt away.

Shayne stayed beside him, sitting on the edge of the couch now, watching as Trevor’s breathing slowed. He could hear the soft murmur of the crew in the background, but he tuned it out, his focus entirely on Trevor. The guy had been pushing himself too hard for too long, and Shayne wasn’t about to let him crash any further.

Trevor mumbled something in his half-asleep state—something about the shoot, about not letting everyone down—but Shayne just shook his head and rested a hand on Trevor’s arm.

“You’re not letting anyone down, Trev. We’ve got this. You just rest.”

Chapter Text

The energy on set was electric, as it usually was when the cameras were rolling for YLYL. Everyone was in bright spirits, tossing jokes and one-liners back and forth, feeding off each other’s energy. Trevor was doing some bit or another, long limbs flailing around until they weren’t, and Trevor crashed down hard, the thud echoing through the room.

There was a split second of silence, just long enough for the crew to glance at each other, concern flickering across their faces. But before anyone could say anything, Trevor popped up with his trademark grin, his laughter bursting out like nothing had happened.

“Shit, long way to fall, huh?” Trevor joked, brushing himself off and rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the impact. The crew erupted into laughter, the moment quickly forgotten as the shoot continued. But Spencer, who had been standing off to the side, wasn’t laughing. He’d seen the way Trevor had hit the floor—too hard, too fast—and there was a tension in the way Trevor moved afterward, something subtle, but there. Spencer’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing for now.

As the shoot wrapped up, the energy began to shift from high-octane comedy to the usual post-shoot wind-down. Crew members scattered to clean up, people chatting as they started to pack up equipment. Trevor, still in full “play-it-cool” mode, was helping to gather props, but Spencer kept an eye on him, watching as Trevor’s movements became stiffer. Every now and then, Spencer noticed Trevor wincing, his hand unconsciously brushing over his ribs or his shoulder, but he never slowed down.

When Trevor thought no one was looking, he paused to press his hand against his side, wincing more openly this time. That was all Spencer needed to see.

“Trevor, hold up,” Spencer called out, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation around the set. He walked over to Trevor, who straightened up quickly, forcing a casual grin as Spencer approached.

“What’s up?” Trevor asked, his tone light, but there was something in his eyes that told Spencer he knew exactly what this was about.

Spencer crossed his arms, his eyes scanning Trevor’s face for any sign that he’d admit to what was clearly bothering him. “You good? You took a pretty hard hit earlier.”

Trevor waved him off, though the motion was more restrained than usual. “Pfft, I’m fine. It’s all part of the bit, right? Gotta commit.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Sure. But I saw you wincing. And you keep grabbing your side like it’s on fire.”

Trevor laughed, but it sounded forced, the kind of laugh that was meant to end a conversation before it even started. “Nah, man. Just a little sore. It’s nothing.”

Spencer wasn’t having it. He stepped closer, his expression softening but still firm. “Trevor, come on. Let me take a look.” He nodded toward a quieter corner of the set, where they could get a little space away from the rest of the crew. Trevor hesitated, glancing around, as if hoping someone would call him away to do something else, but no one did.

He sighed, resigned, and followed Spencer over to the side of the room. Once there, Spencer gestured for Trevor to lift his shirt. Trevor gave him a look, a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance, but he complied, tugging up the hem of his shirt to reveal a nasty collection of dark bruises blossoming across his ribs.

“Dude,” Spencer muttered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the bruises. “That’s not nothing. Why didn’t you say something?”

Trevor shrugged, dropping the shirt quickly like it would make the bruises disappear. “It looks worse than it is. I’ve had worse, trust me.”

Spencer shook his head, crouching down to grab a first aid kit that was stashed on the sidelines. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to. Bruises like that don’t come from ‘a little fall,’ Trev.” He rummaged through the kit, pulling out some ice packs and a bandage. “Sit down for a sec.”

Trevor rolled his eyes but sat, wincing as he did. Spencer handed him the ice pack, and Trevor pressed it gingerly against his side. The cold immediately caused him to flinch, but he settled into it with a sigh.

“Thanks, man, but seriously, I’m good. I’ve been through worse stunts and walked away just fine,” Trevor insisted, his voice more defensive now, like he needed to prove something. “I’m not hurt hurt.”

Spencer sat beside him, not letting the moment slide. “It’s not about proving anything. You know we do dumb stuff on set all the time, but we also take care of each other, yeah? You can’t just brush it off because you think you’re fine.”

Trevor glanced sideways at Spencer, feeling the weight of his concern. He looked down, fiddling with the ice pack in his hands. “I guess I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Spencer let out a small laugh. “Trevor, you can crash through a table and still make people laugh, but you’re allowed to take a breather when something actually hurts. We’re not superheroes.”

Trevor chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He leaned back slightly, resting his head against the wall behind them. “I know, I know. I just—sometimes I feel like if I slow down, I’ll lose momentum, y’know?”

“Dude, you’re not gonna lose momentum. We all see how hard you go. It’s okay to stop for a minute. Trust me, no one’s gonna forget how funny you are because you took a break to ice your ribs.”

Trevor smiled at that, his eyes softening. “Thanks, Spence. I guess I needed to hear that.”

Spencer clapped him on the shoulder, careful to avoid any sore spots. “That’s what I’m here for. Now just sit tight for a bit and let the ice do its thing.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a while, the hum of the set continuing in the background as the rest of the crew moved around them. Trevor’s posture finally relaxed as he let the cold seep into his bruises, the pain slowly dulling. Spencer stayed by his side, not making a big deal of it, just being there to show Trevor that really, taking a break was nothing to be scared of. Nobody cared. They were just two men sitting, one with an icepack to his ribs, and one for emotional support. Nothing more, nothing less.

Chapter Text

Trevor had been burning the candle at both ends for weeks.

Each day blurred into the next, filled with quick costume changes, rehearsals, and the chaos of throwing himself into whatever sketch was on the docket. He loved the work—always had—but the exhaustion was creeping in around the edges. This latest bit, though, was a real physical grind, full of stunts and wild slapstick. Lots of running, jumping, and the kind of ridiculous antics that were fun until something went wrong.

Today, something went wrong.

They were filming an over-the-top chase scene, with Trevor zigzagging across the set while pretending to dodge imaginary obstacles. He’d done it three times already, and the adrenaline was keeping him going. But on the fourth take, everything came crashing down—literally. Mid-jump, his foot slid across a patch of the floor that wasn’t as dry as it should’ve been. His sneaker lost traction, and in a split second, he twisted awkwardly, completely missing his mark. He didn’t even have time to brace himself before his side collided with the sharp corner of a heavy prop table.

The sound was awful—an audible crack followed by a dull thud as he hit the ground, breath knocked out of him.

For a moment, he lay there, gasping for air, the shock of the impact numbing the pain just enough for him to process what had happened. The set fell silent, all eyes on him, waiting for a sign that he was okay. It hurt like hell, his ribs screaming in protest, but Trevor had been in enough situations to know how to play it cool.

He groaned as he got up, waving off the crew’s worried glances with a strained laugh. “Guess I won that round,” he quipped, one hand resting over his side as he straightened up. He plastered on his best grin, ignoring the sharp, stabbing sensation radiating from his ribs with every movement.

“Trevor, you good?” someone called from across the set, but he barely registered it. All he cared about was getting through the next take, convincing everyone he was fine. He could handle it—it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a hit on set, and it wouldn’t be the last.

He cracked a joke about the table taking the real beating, throwing in a wink for good measure. Most of the crew laughed, relieved that he seemed okay. But Shayne didn’t. Shayne’s gaze lingered, concern etched into his expression as he watched Trevor closely. His eyebrows knit together in that way that told Trevor he wasn’t buying the act.

Trevor gave a quick shrug, brushing off Shayne’s silent worry with another forced grin. He’d be fine, he thought—he always was.

They had work to do.

By the third take, though, the dull ache had turned into something worse—something deeper, sharper. Every breath pulled at the injured muscles, sending a fiery stab through his side, but Trevor, ever stubborn, wasn’t about to let a little pain get in the way. He could feel the adrenaline kicking in, numbing it just enough to keep going.

He thought he could tough it out. He always did.

They were halfway through the scene when he first noticed his hands starting to shake, the pain swelling until it was hard to concentrate. Trevor’s breath hitched as he tried to focus, but the edges of his vision had started to blur, the studio lights growing harsher, brighter. His lines came out slower, more slurred than he realized, and the moment he tried to move into position, his body faltered.

Shayne was watching him—he always did, keeping an eye on everyone during the shoot—but today, his gaze was glued to Trevor.

“Cut!” the director called from behind the camera, but Trevor barely registered it. The words sounded muffled, like they were coming from underwater. He blinked hard, trying to shake the fog from his head, but his body wasn’t listening.

Shayne crossed the set in a heartbeat. “Trevor, you good?”

Trevor nodded, or tried to. He went to speak, but what came out wasn’t words—just a garbled mess that barely made sense, even to him. His tongue felt thick, his mind sluggish, like his thoughts were just out of reach.

Before he could even try again, the world tilted, his knees giving out beneath him as the pain in his ribs flared hot and vicious. The floor seemed to rush up toward him, but then Shayne was there, catching him just in time, his arm locking around Trevor’s shoulders to keep him upright.

“Whoa, hey—Trevor!” Shayne’s voice was sharp with panic, his grip tightening as Trevor slumped against him.

Trevor tried to stand, to regain his balance, but his legs refused to cooperate. His side throbbed in time with his pulse, and he could feel his body trembling, the exhaustion and pain finally catching up to him.

“Trevor, talk to me. What’s going on?” Shayne asked, his face inches away now, his eyes scanning Trevor’s for any sign of what was wrong. The usual cocky humor in his tone was gone, replaced by something more serious—something scared.

“I—” Trevor gasped, his voice barely a whisper, “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even close.

The world spun again, and he would’ve hit the ground if Shayne hadn’t been holding him so tightly. Trevor’s head fell forward, his forehead resting against Shayne’s shoulder as he fought to stay conscious. The pain in his ribs was a constant, stabbing ache now, each breath harder than the last.

Shayne’s arm shifted, bracing Trevor against his chest as he yelled over his shoulder. “Someone call for help!”

The set was buzzing now, people moving, voices rising, but all Trevor could focus on was the pain. It spread through him, from his ribs down his side, making his limbs feel heavy, useless. He could hear Shayne talking to him, reassuring him, but the words were distant, fading in and out like they were coming from miles away.

“I’ve got you, okay?” Shayne said, his voice softer now, more certain. He eased Trevor to the floor, careful to keep him propped up, cradling his head in one hand while the other hovered protectively over Trevor’s side. “Help’s on the way. Just hang in there.”

Trevor nodded weakly, though he barely had the strength for it. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, his body drained of whatever fight he had left. He hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten until now, until there was no way to hide it anymore.

Shayne’s presence was steady, a comforting weight against the panic rising in Trevor’s chest. Every time the pain surged, Shayne’s hand tightened around his, grounding him, keeping him anchored to the present.

Trevor tried to speak, tried to apologize for worrying him, but his voice was gone, stolen by the exhaustion that swept over him in waves. All he could do was focus on Shayne’s voice, on the way his friend stayed right there beside him, refusing to leave.

The paramedics arrived not long after, rushing in with equipment and questions Trevor couldn’t answer. Shayne did most of the talking, explaining what had happened, staying close as they worked to get Trevor onto the stretcher. Even as they lifted him, pain shooting through his side, Shayne didn’t let go until he absolutely had to, his hand the last thing Trevor felt before everything went black.

Trevor didn’t wake up until later, in the hospital, his side bandaged and aching but the worst of the pain dulled by medication. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Shayne, slumped in a chair by the bed, his face pale with worry but visibly relieved the second Trevor stirred.

“Hey, idiot,” Shayne said softly, leaning forward. “Next time, maybe don’t try to walk off a broken rib.”

Trevor managed a small, tired smile, his voice rough but grateful. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Trevor sat hunched over his desk, his back stiff, shoulders aching from the hours he'd spent glued to his computer. The keys clacked under his fingers at a frantic pace, almost mechanical in their rhythm as he typed up notes and responded to the endless stream of emails flooding his inbox. His eyes darted across the screen, scanning through scripts, thumbnails, and video edits, but there was a fogginess creeping into his mind, a dull weight that made it harder to keep track of everything.

His vision flickered, the sharp lines of the text smudging at the edges, almost as if he were looking through a dirty window. He blinked hard, once, then again, trying to shake the sensation. The words on the screen slipped out of focus, blending into an indecipherable blur. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the burn behind his lids, then opened them wide, hoping it would clear. It didn’t.

The room around him seemed to distort, the fluorescent lights above casting halos that bled into each other. The edges of his desk warped and trembled, as though the very fabric of the world was bending under some invisible strain. His stomach churned uneasily, a faint nausea rising as the sense of vertigo deepened.

Just a little more, he told himself, forcing his trembling fingers to keep moving. He was already behind schedule—there was no time for breaks, not when there was so much left to do. His breathing quickened, the pressure mounting as his inbox pinged with another message, another task added to the endless list. But no matter how hard he tried to push through, his focus slipped further out of reach.

His hands faltered on the keyboard, his movements slower now, shaky and unsure. A dull ache spread from his temples, wrapping itself around his skull like a vice. Trevor raised a hand to rub at his forehead, his palm slick with sweat, but the pounding behind his eyes only grew worse. When he looked up again, the entire room seemed to shift, a double image overlaying everything—two monitors, two desks, two piles of paperwork scattered haphazardly in front of him. The duplicate images swirled, ghostly and disorienting.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the edge of the desk as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

Angela, walking by with a stack of freshly printed scripts balanced on her hip, slowed her steps when she caught a glimpse of him. At first, she wasn’t sure what had drawn her attention, but then she noticed the tension in his posture—the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were bunched up like he was holding himself together by sheer will. His hand, still gripping the edge of the desk, was shaking.

“Trev?” Her voice cut through the haze, soft but tinged with concern. “You good?”

Trevor’s head snapped up, startled by the sound, but when he turned toward her, the room tilted, spinning faster than before. He blinked, trying to focus on her face, but Angela’s features were a blur, two versions of her swimming in and out of focus. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he forced a tight smile, willing himself to act normal, like everything was fine. He couldn’t show weakness now—not with so much riding on his ability to keep it together.

“Yeah,” he managed, his voice strained. “Just a long day. You know how it is.”

Angela wasn’t buying it. She could see the effort in every word, the forced calm that didn’t match the tension in his body. Her gaze dropped to his hand, still trembling as it reached for his water bottle, but his fingers missed it, brushing against the plastic before finally closing around it on the second try. His knuckles were pale, tight with exertion.

“Trevor,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, “you sure? You don’t look... right.”

She set the scripts down on a nearby table, her full attention now on him. Trevor swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He tried to respond, to wave her off with another reassurance, but the dizziness had reached a new peak, and he could feel the room slipping further out of his control. His vision swam, and suddenly, it was as if the floor had fallen out from under him.

Angela’s hand was on his shoulder before he even realized he was swaying, her grip steady and grounding.

“I…” Trevor’s voice trembled, the words thick on his tongue. He exhaled slowly, shakily, and finally, the truth spilled out. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t focus. Everything’s... spinning.”

Angela’s face softened, worry creasing her brow as she took in the full weight of his confession. Without hesitation, she moved closer, her hand still resting on his shoulder as she guided him away from the desk.

“Alright, that’s it. You’re done for the day,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Trevor didn’t protest as she led him to a chair, his legs shaky, barely holding him upright. His head lolled back against the seat, eyes closed as he tried to still the overwhelming sense of motion. Angela stayed close, making sure he was steady before she reached over, grabbing his laptop and setting it aside.

“You need to take a break, Trev,” she said softly but firmly, crouching down beside him so their eyes were level. “No more pushing yourself. I’ll take care of the rest.”

For a moment, Trevor wanted to fight back, to insist he could keep going, but the exhaustion—both mental and physical—had already won. He nodded weakly, sinking further into the chair, his body finally giving in to the weariness he’d been ignoring for too long.

“Thanks,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the relief was clear in his expression. As Trevor sat slumped in the chair, his breathing gradually evened out. The world had stopped spinning, but his body still felt heavy, like all the tension he’d been carrying had settled into his bones. Angela hovered nearby, glancing at him every few minutes while she worked on sorting the pile of papers she had carried with her earlier. She didn’t push him to talk or try to fill the silence, which was exactly what Trevor needed at that moment.

A soft knock on the door broke the quiet atmosphere of the office. Ian poked his head in, his trademark grin fading when he saw Trevor sitting back, pale and clearly not in his usual energetic state.

"Hey, what's going on?" Ian’s voice was laced with concern as he stepped inside, his eyes darting between Trevor and Angela.

Angela straightened up, giving Ian a quick nod of acknowledgment. "Trevor’s not feeling great," she said gently. "I think he’s been overdoing it. He needs a break."

Trevor opened his mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come. He knew it was true. Ian’s expression shifted into one of genuine worry as he moved closer, standing next to Angela.

"Man, why didn’t you say something?" Ian’s tone was soft but full of concern. He knew the pressure everyone was under, but seeing Trevor like this reminded him how easy it was to forget their limits in the chaos.

"I thought I could handle it," Trevor admitted, his voice hoarse. "Didn’t want to slow anyone down."

Ian sighed and knelt down in front of him, meeting his eyes. "You’re not slowing anyone down, Trev. We’re a team, remember? You don’t have to carry it all on your own."

Trevor blinked, the words sinking in slowly. He was used to being the dependable one, always ready to take on more work when things got hectic. But now, as he sat there with both Ian and Angela looking at him with concern, he realized just how much he had been pushing himself past his limits.

Ian patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Take the rest of the day off. We’ll manage. You’ve already done more than enough."

Angela nodded in agreement. "I’ll take your place in videos, don’t worry about it. You just need to focus on getting some rest."

Trevor hesitated for a moment. The guilt of stepping away from work still gnawed at him, but his body wasn’t giving him much choice anymore. The thought of lying down, letting his mind and body recover, was suddenly appealing.

"Okay," he said, finally giving in. "I’ll head home."

Angela grabbed Trevor’s jacket from the back of his chair, helping him slip it on as Ian offered to call him an Uber. Trevor chuckled weakly at their combined effort to get him out of the office. For once, he didn’t argue.

Before he left, Ian clapped him on the back with a small smile. "Go get some rest, man. We’ve got your back."

As Trevor stepped out of the office and into the cool air, he could feel the weight of the day slowly peeling away. Angela and Ian’s words echoed in his mind: We’ve got your back. For the first time in a long while, Trevor allowed himself to believe that it was okay to let go, to rely on others, to trust that they could handle things without him constantly pushing himself to the breaking point.

Chapter Text

Trevor didn’t know when he stopped eating, just that he did and now the hunger was a familiar companion, one Trevor had come to recognize in the quiet moments between the noise in his head. It wasn’t just the gnawing in his stomach that he could ignore—he had learned to bury that easily enough. No, it was something deeper, something darker, a low hum that thrummed beneath his skin. There was a power in it. A sense of control that he clung to when everything else felt chaotic, overwhelming. The hunger, at least, was something he could command. Something that didn’t ask anything of him, didn’t pile more onto his plate than he could handle.

It was twisted, he knew that. But somewhere along the way, it had started to feel good.

The emptiness brought a strange kind of clarity, a razor-sharp focus that he couldn’t explain, but that he welcomed. Each pang, each wave of dizziness that swept over him, reminded him that he was holding the reins. He could push through it, master it. If he could control his body, ignore its demands, then maybe—just maybe—he could control everything else too.

Trevor told himself it wasn’t about the food. It was never about the food. It was about the discipline, about proving to himself that he could go without, that he could endure. That he didn’t need anything or anyone. It was about being stronger than the exhaustion, stronger than the panic that sometimes crept in late at night when he was alone and couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. The hunger grounded him, tethered him to something physical, something real, and in that, there was relief.

He’d convinced himself he didn’t need to eat, not the way other people did. If he could keep working, keep moving, then he was fine. And wasn’t that what mattered? As long as he was producing, as long as he was useful, the rest didn’t matter. Hunger became an afterthought, something he could rise above.

And yet, in the back of his mind, there was always that whisper. The one that told him it wasn’t sustainable, that he was walking a dangerous line. But that voice was easy to ignore, buried beneath layers of denial and self-assurance. Because what did it matter if his hands shook, if his head swam when he stood up too fast? He could still work. He was still functioning. That was the only thing that mattered.

But there was something else, something darker, that lingered beneath the surface. A part of him liked the way the hunger made him feel. The hollowness inside his chest became something familiar, almost comforting. It dulled the other pain—the mental fog, the emotional weight that pressed down on him whenever he let his guard slip. Hunger, at least, was straightforward. It didn’t twist into knots of anxiety or self-doubt. It was a clean, physical ache, one he could manage.

There were moments, though, when he caught himself staring too long at a plate of food, knowing he should eat but not wanting to. It felt too easy, too indulgent. It would break the delicate balance he’d created, the control he’d worked so hard to maintain. Each meal skipped felt like a victory, another reminder that he was strong enough to resist. The emptiness was his reward, a quiet assurance that he still had power over something in his life.

The caffeine was enough to keep him going most days. It filled the gaps, dulled the edge of hunger just enough to get by. His hands would tremble, sure, but he was used to that now. A small price to pay for the control it gave him. And if he was honest with himself, there was a small, sinister part of him that reveled in it—the way the world blurred at the edges when he stood too quickly, the way his stomach clenched and tightened in protest. It was a reminder that he was in charge, that he could push through, no matter how much his body begged for relief.

He knew, deep down, that it was a dangerous game. That the hunger wasn’t just something to be managed, but a signal that his body was breaking down, that he was crossing lines he couldn’t uncross. But acknowledging that would mean admitting that he was spiraling, that this wasn’t strength but self-destruction. And Trevor wasn’t ready to face that—not yet.

Not when the hunger still felt like something he could control.

Not when it was the only thing he could control.

The hunger wrapped itself around Trevor like a second skin, something he’d grown used to wearing. It clung tightly, familiar, a weight that he both hated and relied on. The emptiness wasn’t just a physical sensation anymore; it had become a part of him, woven into his daily routine, into the fabric of who he was. It wasn’t about being stronger or more disciplined—not really. That was the lie he told himself to make it easier, to justify the constant deprivation. But the truth was much messier, tangled in emotions he didn’t dare unpack.

Control. It always came back to that, didn’t it?

When everything else slipped out of his grasp—when deadlines stacked up, when the chaos of production spun out of control, when the pressure to be on every day felt like it would suffocate him—at least the hunger was his. He could hold onto that, like a lifeline, a tether. It gave him the illusion of strength, like he could mold himself into something harder, sharper, unyielding. The discomfort was proof that he was still in charge. He could endure anything, so long as he kept the hunger in check, so long as he didn’t let himself give in.

But beneath the surface, there was something more fragile, more desperate. The control wasn’t just about proving his strength. It was about keeping the rest of the chaos at bay. If he could manage the gnawing in his stomach, if he could silence it, maybe he could do the same with the thoughts that crept in late at night—the self-doubt, the anxiety, the fear that he wasn’t enough. That he never would be.

Because if he stopped, if he let himself feel that hunger, really feel it, then everything else would come rushing in, wouldn’t it? All the things he was trying so hard to ignore—the exhaustion, the pressure, the nagging sense that no matter how much he gave, it would never be enough. He was terrified of what might happen if he let himself rest. If he stopped pushing, stopped grinding himself down to the bone, would everything fall apart? Would he?

It wasn’t about the food. It never had been. It was about the control. The control that kept him from slipping, from unraveling at the seams. And that small, dark part of him clung to that control with an almost feverish desperation.

But there were cracks. There had to be. The signs were all there—the trembling hands, the dizzy spells, the growing confusion when he tried to recall the last meal he’d eaten. And still, some part of him reveled in it, almost took pride in the way his body protested, knowing he was overriding those basic needs. He could deny himself, push through the pain, and it made him feel invincible, even as his body slowly betrayed him.

It wasn’t until moments like now, when his legs wobbled beneath him and his vision blurred, that the lie became harder to ignore. When the room spun, when his hands trembled so badly he could barely hold a knife steady, there was that brief, flickering fear. The control wasn’t as solid as he’d thought. It was slipping, cracking under the weight of everything he’d been trying to suppress.

But that fear was fleeting, drowned out by the stubborn refusal to let go of what little power he thought he had left. Trevor bit the inside of his cheek, the pain sharp enough to pull him back, to ground him. He couldn’t fall apart now. Not when there was still so much to do, so much to prove. He couldn’t show weakness, couldn’t let anyone see how close to the edge he really was. Especially not Josh. Not the crew.

Because if they saw it—if they saw how fragile he really was—it would shatter the image he’d built. The one where he was capable, resilient, fine. He’d convinced himself he had to be that way, for them, for the work. The idea of letting anyone in, of admitting that he was running on empty, that he didn’t know how to stop—it terrified him. It meant acknowledging that he wasn’t in control at all, that maybe he hadn’t been for a long time.

But then came the hunger again, a sharp twist in his gut that made his vision swim, and for a moment, Trevor almost welcomed it. It was a distraction, a reminder of the control he still had, even if it was killing him slowly.

The shame crept in, too, curling around his thoughts like smoke. He knew this wasn’t sustainable, that what he was doing wasn’t healthy, wasn’t right. But he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not when everything else felt like it was slipping out of his grasp.

He swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in his throat, the tightness in his chest. No one could know how bad it had gotten. Not even Josh, who watched him too closely these days, who had started to see through the cracks. Trevor forced a smile, hollow as it felt, and reached for the coffee again. 

He could push through. He always did. He barely noticed the ache in his body anymore, or the way his stomach had turned from a constant, empty gnaw to a dull throb that he'd learned to ignore.

It wasn’t that he meant to skip meals. It just... happened. First one day, then two. Now, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd sat down for something more than a quick bite between takes. The caffeine helped, or so he convinced himself—until his hands started to tremble.

Today was no different. He moved on autopilot, grabbing a bowl and misjudging the distance. It slipped from his fingers, but he caught it just before it hit the counter, barely steadying himself in the process. The room seemed to sway for a moment, and Trevor blinked, willing himself to focus. He could power through this. Just a little longer.

Josh, hovering nearby, watched it all unfold with a raised eyebrow, but there was something sharper in his gaze. His voice was casual, but the concern sliced through the haze in Trevor's head like a cold blade. "Hey, man, you alright?"

Trevor didn’t look up. He couldn’t. If he did, he might see the worry etched in Josh’s expression, and he wasn’t ready to face that. Not yet. He forced his hands to keep moving, chopping with a rhythm that was no longer steady, the knife awkward in his grip like it belonged to someone else. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbled, though the word felt brittle, like it might shatter if Josh pressed any harder.

The knife slipped. A sharp sting shot through his finger, followed by a tiny bead of blood. “Shit.”

Josh was beside him in an instant, his eyes narrowing. “You sure about that?” His voice had a subtle edge now, a kind of disbelief. "You look like you haven’t slept in a week."

Trevor laughed, but it was hollow, the sound grating even to his own ears. He didn’t bother stopping, didn’t want to admit how the blade in his hands seemed heavier than it should. “Just tired. Nothing new.” The exhaustion wrapped around him, thick and suffocating, but he wore it like armor, hoping it might shield him from the deeper truth. The one that told him he was more than tired—he was unraveling.

Josh wasn’t convinced, and Trevor felt the weight of his stare linger like a pulse against his skin. His hands fumbled with a spice jar, the simple act of unscrewing it turning into a battle he wasn’t sure he’d win. The jar slipped, rattling onto the counter. “You sure about that?” Josh asked again, his voice quieter this time, laced with something deeper. Concern. “Because you’re not looking too good.”

The words twisted in Trevor’s gut, feeding that familiar ache. He didn’t need to look good. He just needed to keep moving. Keep doing. But when he reached up for another ingredient, his vision blurred, the edges of the world dissolving into something soft and unfocused.

His legs wobbled.

This time, he didn’t catch himself before he stumbled. The room tilted, the ground slipping out from under him, and for a terrifying second, everything slowed.

Josh was quicker. His hand shot out, steadying Trevor by the arm, the grip firm, grounding. It pulled Trevor back from the brink, but only just. “Okay, that’s it,” Josh said, his voice cutting through the fog. There was no warmth in it now, just an unyielding certainty. “You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Trevor insisted, his voice shaky, an echo of the lie he’d told himself for days. Weeks, maybe. He tried to wave Josh off, but his limbs felt heavy, disconnected. “Really. I just—”

“No, you’re not.” Josh’s words sliced through him, leaving no room for argument. He stepped in front of Trevor, blocking his path, forcing Trevor to look at him. “When’s the last time you ate something?”

The question hit harder than the stumble, harder than the hunger gnawing at his insides. Trevor’s mind raced, scrambling for an answer that didn’t sound like another lie. He could feel Josh’s eyes on him, the weight of the silence that followed the question hanging in the air. He couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t say out loud that he didn’t remember.

“I think…” Trevor forced the words out, his voice weak, his mouth dry. “I had a bagel this morning. Or something. Coffee too.” The lie tumbled out too quickly, too rehearsed, but his hands were already moving again, reaching for something—anything—to keep him busy.

Josh didn’t buy it. Of course, he didn’t. “A bagel?” he repeated, and Trevor could hear the doubt threaded through the words. “That’s it?”

Trevor shrugged, his shoulders tight, his body resisting the truth. “Not really hungry, you know?” He tried to sound casual, like it didn’t matter, but his voice cracked at the edges. “Just got a lot to get done.”

The world wavered again. Trevor blinked hard, forcing himself to focus. But Josh didn’t move. He stayed planted, arms crossed, his stare unflinching. “Trevor.” Josh’s voice softened, but it wasn’t comforting. It was too soft, like a whisper before a storm. “This isn’t just tired. I know what you look like when you’re tired. This… this is something else.”

The words settled in Trevor’s chest like stones, weighing him down, pressing against the fragile excuses he’d built. He shifted his weight, trying to steady himself, but his body betrayed him. The hunger, the exhaustion, the lie—it was all catching up, faster than he could outrun it.

“It’s just been busy,” Trevor said, the sharpness in his voice betraying how close to the edge he really was. “We’re all tired, man.”

Josh didn’t flinch. He didn’t back off either. “We’re all tired, yeah, but we’re not all skipping meals. When was the last time you really ate?”

Trevor swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat like sandpaper. The lie was there, ready, but it felt too heavy now, too obvious. He tried to push through anyway. “I had coffee. That counts, right?”

Josh’s eyebrows shot up, his expression incredulous. “Coffee doesn’t count, Trevor. You know that.” His voice was low, almost pleading now, the concern cutting deeper than before.

Trevor’s mouth opened to argue, to throw out another deflection, but the ground swayed beneath him again. The world went blurry, the sounds of the kitchen fading into a distant hum. His body was giving up before his mind had the chance to.

“Trevor?” Josh’s voice was muffled, distant, like it was coming from underwater.

Trevor wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. His legs gave out first. The world tilted, and in an instant, everything went dark.

Josh lunged forward, his arms catching Trevor just before he crumpled to the floor. “Shit!” Josh cursed under his breath, panic flashing across his face. He lowered Trevor gently to the ground, his hands trembling as he cradled Trevor’s head, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Trevor, come on, man,” Josh’s voice cracked, fear seeping through. “Open your eyes.”

Trevor didn’t stir, his face pale, his breath shallow.

The kitchen crew, who had been busy with their own tasks, suddenly rushed over, their faces a mix of confusion and worry. Someone shouted for water, another for a first-aid kit, but Josh barely heard them. His focus was on Trevor, whose skin had gone clammy, his eyes still closed.

"Trevor, come on, wake up!" Josh's voice cracked as he knelt beside his friend, his hand gripping Trevor’s shoulder tightly. He could feel the tremors still running through Trevor’s body, the aftereffects of pushing too hard for too long.

After what felt like an eternity, Trevor stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, and he blinked in confusion as the room came back into view.

"Trevor!" Josh exhaled in relief, his grip loosening just slightly. "You scared the hell out of me."

Trevor’s voice was weak, hoarse as he tried to sit up. "What… what happened?"

"You passed out, man," Josh said, his voice still shaky but laced with frustration. "This is exactly what I was worried about."

Trevor leaned back against the cabinets, his head spinning as reality set in. The hunger, the exhaustion—everything he’d been trying to push away came crashing down on him, undeniable now. He rubbed his face, embarrassed, but too drained to protest anymore.

Josh handed him the water someone had fetched, his expression softening. "Drink this. Slowly."

Trevor took a few small sips, the cool water helping to bring him back to the present. "I’m sorry," he murmured, guilt creeping into his voice. "I didn’t think it would get this bad."

Josh shook his head, his frustration giving way to concern. "You don’t have to apologize, Trev. You just… you gotta stop doing this to yourself. We all get stressed, but you can’t run yourself into the ground like this."

Trevor nodded weakly, the realization sinking in deeper now that his body had forced him to stop. He could feel the weight of the last few days catching up with him in every muscle, every ache. The lie he'd been telling himself—that he could handle it all—had finally broken.

Josh sighed, sitting down beside him on the floor. "Look, man, you’re allowed to take a break. You need to eat. Rest. We can pick up the slack if you need it. But you gotta let us know when it’s getting too much."

Trevor swallowed hard, the emotion catching in his throat. He hated feeling weak, but he knew Josh was right. "Yeah… I will. I promise."

Josh gave him a reassuring pat on the back, his voice lighter now. "Good. But for now, you’re not doing anything until you get some real food in you. And I mean real food, not just coffee."

Trevor managed a small smile, though it was tinged with exhaustion. "Yeah. Okay."

That evening, when Trevor stepped through the door of his apartment, the soft click of the lock behind him echoed through the quiet space. His feet dragged along the floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The empty rooms greeted him with a deafening silence, the kind that seemed to close in, pressing against his chest. He kicked off his shoes, carelessly leaving them by the entrance, and moved to the kitchen, his limbs aching with an exhaustion that had nothing to do with the day’s work.

The fridge door creaked open, a sharp sound that cut through the stillness, but he barely heard it. His eyes scanned the shelves, but the sight of food felt… distant. A sandwich. Something simple. That was the plan. Just get something down, he told himself. His body screamed for it, but his mind… his mind was a different story. He reached for the bread, his hand trembling as he pulled the loaf from the fridge. The edges of the plastic felt cold, too cold, biting into his skin in a way that left him more numb than aware.

He forced himself to go through the motions. Bread on the counter. He opened the peanut butter jar, its familiar scent flooding the room. But as he picked up the knife, his hand hovered over the slice, frozen. His throat tightened, and he swallowed against the sudden lump that formed. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

You can do this.

But something inside him was shutting down, as though every movement, every thought, had to be dragged through thick mud. The longer he stared at the bread, the more it felt impossible. His stomach twisted, not in hunger, but in that sick, empty way that made him feel hollow. He forced the knife across the bread, spreading the peanut butter unevenly, the motion mechanical and slow. The bread tore under the pressure, but he didn’t care.

It wasn’t enough.

He put the sandwich together, staring at the sad excuse for a meal. His fingers shook as he picked it up, and he brought it to his mouth, taking a bite. It felt wrong. Too thick. Too dry. It sat heavy on his tongue, and suddenly, his throat refused to swallow. He gagged, almost choking on the bite, and spat it out into the sink, his chest heaving.

“Dammit,” he muttered, leaning over the counter, gripping its edge so hard his knuckles turned white.

He wanted to eat. He wanted to feel normal. But his body—his mind—was betraying him, and it made him feel weak. The sandwich was in his hand, but it might as well have been miles away. His stomach churned again, a harsh reminder of his failure, and tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t even know why. He wasn’t sad exactly. It was something deeper—somewhere far below the surface where everything was breaking down. He was trying so damn hard, but it was like something inside him had given up without telling him.

Hopelessness settled in like a weight on his chest. He leaned his forehead against the cold surface of the counter, breathing slow, shallow breaths, trying to hold himself together when it felt like everything was unraveling. He could feel the hunger gnawing at him, but the idea of eating… it just didn’t make sense. Not anymore.

What’s wrong with you?

The voice in his head was loud, relentless. He knew he was pushing himself too hard. He knew the pressure was too much, but that didn’t make it easier. It didn’t stop the feeling that he was slipping—slipping so fast, he didn’t know if he could catch himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it. Couldn’t. It might’ve been Josh or Shayne or someone else, someone who cared, but what would they say? He couldn’t even manage a sandwich. He couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine.

Trevor slid down to the floor, resting his back against the cabinets. The sandwich lay abandoned on the counter, the bread now growing stale. He closed his eyes, the dark behind his eyelids a strange comfort, letting him shut out the world. His hands were still trembling, and he clutched them together, willing them to stop.

Trevor sat on the kitchen floor for what felt like hours. His mind was a haze, thoughts circling but never landing. He stared ahead, eyes unfocused, feeling the weight of the empty apartment pressing in from all sides. The silence wasn’t just in the room; it was inside him, too—this gnawing, hollow silence that nothing could fill.

Eventually, he forced himself to move. He needed to do something, anything to break this stillness before it consumed him whole. He dragged himself up off the floor and wandered into the living room. The familiar clutter of his life greeted him—scattered papers, a jacket thrown over the back of the couch, empty cups on the coffee table. It all looked so… normal. As if his life was still going on, even though he felt like he’d been left behind, stuck in some invisible quicksand.

He turned on the TV, flipping mindlessly through channels, not really looking for anything. He just needed the noise. Anything to drown out the screaming quiet in his head. But the flashing images, the endless drone of voices, none of it reached him. It all blurred together, a background hum to the storm raging inside.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he looked. It was a message from Josh.

josh. Hey man, you good? 

Trevor stared at the words, the concern behind them clear. He should respond. He should let them know he was okay, or at least try to sound okay. But his fingers hovered over the screen, unable to type a single word. What could he even say? That he was falling apart? That he couldn’t eat, couldn’t think, couldn’t be the person they knew anymore?

He tossed the phone aside. The messages could wait. Everything could wait.

Trevor’s eyes fell on his guitar, leaning against the wall. It used to be his escape. His one way to shut out the world and lose himself in something that made sense. But lately, even that had felt like too much. The strings felt foreign under his fingers, the music distant. Still, he picked it up, sitting down on the couch, cradling the instrument in his lap.

He strummed a few chords, but they were off—disconnected, just like him. His fingers stumbled over the strings, and the sound came out jagged, harsh. It wasn’t music. It was noise.

He stopped, the silence rushing back in like a tidal wave. He could feel the familiar pressure building in his chest again, that crushing weight that made it hard to breathe. His hands clenched into fists, the frustration bubbling over. Why couldn’t he do this anymore? Why couldn’t he just be the person he used to be?

Trevor set the guitar down carefully, but his hands were shaking again. He wasn’t hungry anymore, just… tired. Bone-deep tired. But the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch. His thoughts flickered back to the last time he had felt even remotely normal. Weeks ago? Months? He couldn’t even remember. It was all slipping away so fast, and no matter how hard he tried to grab hold, it kept slipping through his fingers like sand.

Maybe he should call someone. Josh, Shayne, anyone. But the idea of talking—of having to explain himself, of admitting out loud that something was really wrong—felt too heavy. Too raw. He didn’t have the words, and he didn’t have the energy.

Instead, Trevor leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The dull throb of hunger still lingered in the background, but he ignored it. He’d gotten good at that. Ignoring the things his body was telling him. Ignoring the voice that whispered he was spiraling.

His mind drifted, wandering through the fog. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this. Every day felt like a fight just to stay above water, and every day the waves seemed higher. It was like his life was unraveling, one frayed thread at a time, and no matter how hard he tried to pull them back together, they just kept slipping away.

Maybe tomorrow would be better, he told himself, though the words felt hollow even as he thought them. Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up and things would be different. Maybe the heaviness would lift. Maybe the world would feel a little less distant, and food wouldn’t taste like ash in his mouth. Maybe he’d feel like himself again.

But deep down, Trevor didn’t believe it.

Chapter Text

The next day dragged itself into being, pulling Trevor along with it. The sun’s pale light slanted through the blinds, but it did nothing to lift the weight that had settled in his chest. His body felt like lead, his limbs stiff and slow, aching as if he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long. The couch had done nothing for him—he wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but it couldn’t have been for long. The thin blanket draped over him was more of a ghostly comfort than anything real, and he couldn’t remember how it had ended up there.

His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of it. His head pulsed with a low, constant ache that throbbed behind his eyes, dull but relentless. He blinked against the brightness, staring at the ceiling for longer than he should have. It would’ve been easier to stay there, cocooned in that half-conscious state where everything was muted, even the pain. But he couldn’t—there was work to be done, and the Mythical Kitchen crew was counting on him.

Trevor dragged himself up, every motion slow and deliberate, like his muscles had forgotten how to respond. He went through the steps of getting ready, but it felt mechanical, like watching someone else move his body. The reflection staring back at him in the bathroom mirror looked foreign. His face was gaunt, hollow, the edges too sharp. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes, a permanent fixture now, and his skin had a grayish tinge, like all the life had been sapped out of him. He splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would shock him into feeling alive again, but the water only slid down his cheeks, pooling around the hollow of his collarbone.

The image in the mirror stayed the same.

He combed his hair, forcing it into something close to presentable. His hands trembled, fingers clumsy, and the comb snagged on a knot, pulling painfully at his scalp. He winced but said nothing, the sting barely registering in the haze that had settled over him. You can do this, he told himself, his mind echoing back in the same dull monotone it always used these days. You’ve done it before. You’ve been doing it for weeks.

But each day was harder than the last.

The studio greeted him with a chorus of sounds—the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, the sizzle of something frying, the hum of cameras being prepped for another shoot. Normally, this place grounded him. It was his second home, filled with the kind of comfort that came from familiarity. But today, everything felt distant. The warmth was there, but it didn’t reach him. It was like standing behind glass, watching a world he used to belong to but couldn’t touch anymore.

Josh was the first to notice. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled rich, savory, and comforting. His sharp eyes caught sight of Trevor as he walked in, and immediately his expression shifted, the lines around his mouth deepening with concern.

“Hey, man,” Josh called out, setting down the wooden spoon. “You okay? You didn’t answer my texts.”

Trevor forced a smile, but it felt like a mask. It stretched across his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve just been… tired.”

It was the truth, but not the whole of it. There wasn’t a word that could encompass the kind of exhaustion Trevor felt. It wasn’t just his body that was worn out—it was his mind, his heart, his soul. The kind of tired that no amount of sleep could fix.

Josh studied him, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned Trevor’s face like he was trying to see through the lie. “You look like hell,” Josh said, voice low and firm. “Have you eaten?”

Trevor opened his mouth, ready to lie—to say something simple, like “yeah” or “this morning”—but the words stuck in his throat. The truth hung heavy on his tongue, and all he could manage was a half-shrug, his silence saying more than he wanted it to.

Josh sighed, the sound heavy with frustration, but it wasn’t aimed at Trevor. It was the kind of frustration that came from caring too much, from watching someone you care about fall apart and not knowing how to fix it. He wiped his hands on his apron, then stepped forward, standing right in front of Trevor, close enough that the warmth of the kitchen reached him, even if he didn’t feel it.

“You gotta stop doing this,” Josh said, his voice softer now, the edge gone. “Come on. Sit down.”

Trevor tried to protest, but his legs betrayed him, weak and unsteady beneath him. Josh’s hand was on his back, gentle but firm, guiding him to a stool at the counter. His legs gave out the second he sat, relief and shame flooding him in equal measure. He hated that he needed this, hated that they could see just how close to the edge he was.

The kitchen crew bustled around, but it was like a silent ripple passed through them as one by one they noticed Trevor sitting there, pale and drawn. Nicole passed by, her usual brightness dimming as her eyes softened with concern. Vi noticed next, her movements halting before she leaned across the counter, her brow furrowed.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice a little quieter than usual, like she was afraid of shattering something fragile. “You look… off.”

“I’m fine,” Trevor mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper as his fingers ran through his hair, his hands trembling just enough to betray him. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep great.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t enough. Not with the way their eyes lingered on him, concern etched in every glance.

Josh turned back to the stove, his movements sharper, more urgent now as he stirred the pot. “You didn’t sleep because you didn’t eat,” he muttered, not quite looking at Trevor but speaking to the room, the frustration simmering again. “You’re not taking care of yourself, and it’s starting to show.”

Trevor’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t that bad, but the truth was too big to swallow, and his body betrayed him. His hands shook as he pressed them against the counter, trying to steady himself.

Nicole came back with a glass of water, setting it in front of him. “Here. Drink. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Trevor took the glass, but his hands were shaking, the water trembling in the cup. He took a small sip, the coolness soothing his dry throat, but it did nothing for the gnawing emptiness inside. He could feel them all watching him, waiting for him to say something, to reassure them. But he had nothing to give.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring down at the glass like it could hide him. “I didn’t mean to worry you guys.”

Vi leaned closer, her hand hovering just above his arm as if she wasn’t sure whether to touch him or not. “You don’t have to apologize, Trev. We just… we care. That’s all.”

Josh set a bowl in front of him, something hearty and warm, steam rising from it in gentle curls. The smell was comforting, like something his mom used to make, the kind of food that made you feel safe. But Trevor’s stomach clenched at the sight of it.

“You need to eat,” Josh said, his voice gentle but firm. “Just try a bite. We’re not letting you go through another day like this.”

Trevor stared at the bowl, his throat tight. He wanted to eat, to make them feel better, to prove that he could do this. But his hands felt like they were filled with lead, too heavy to lift the spoon. The smell of the food made him nauseous, the knot in his stomach tightening until it hurt.

“I can’t,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I’m trying, but I can’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He felt small, fragile, like he was crumbling right in front of them. His chest tightened with the weight of it all—of their concern, of his own failure. He was trying so hard, but nothing seemed to work. Everything was too much, too heavy, and all he wanted to do was disappear into the quiet, where nothing could touch him.

Josh sighed, and this time it was soft, understanding. He didn’t push the bowl back toward Trevor, didn’t say anything about what he should or shouldn’t be doing. Instead, he sat down next to him, his presence a steady warmth.

“It’s okay,” Josh said quietly. There was no judgment in Josh’s voice, just frustration born from worry. Trevor could hear it, and that made it worse. He wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t, but it felt like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. "Just try a bite. You don’t have to finish it, but try."

 His stomach twisted painfully, nausea rising in his throat. The food blurred in front of him, his vision swimming, and all he could hear was the sound of his own breath, shallow and ragged.

He couldn’t do this.

His hands were trembling again, fingers twitching as they hovered over the spoon. His body wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t move, and a deep, gnawing shame crawled up his spine. He was supposed to be stronger than this. He had been holding it together for so long, and now, in front of everyone—Josh, Nicole, Vi—he was falling apart. The heaviness in his chest spread, thick and suffocating, pressing down on him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible, cracking like thin ice.

Josh didn’t say anything for a moment, just sat there, his presence solid and unwavering. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, softer. “I know,” he said gently. “It’s okay, Trev. You’re allowed to have bad days.”

But Trevor didn’t feel like he was allowed. He didn’t feel like he had any right to be this broken, this fragile. Not when they all depended on him. Not when there was so much to do. He’d been pushing through it for weeks, pretending that everything was fine, plastering on that smile, cracking jokes when he had to. But now... now he couldn’t pretend anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor mumbled, his throat tightening. The words felt small, useless, but they were all he had. “I don’t—” He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right thing to say, the right way to make them understand without falling apart completely. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Nicole stepped forward, her face soft with understanding, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” she said, her voice so kind it almost hurt. “You’ve just... been carrying too much for too long.”

Trevor’s chest clenched at her words, a wave of raw emotion surging up, threatening to spill over. He’d been trying so hard not to feel this way, to push everything down and keep moving forward. But now, sitting here in front of them, he couldn’t stop the tears from welling up, his vision blurring as his shoulders shook with the weight of it all.

Josh was still there, steady as ever. He didn’t push, didn’t try to force Trevor into eating or talking. He just stayed close, his hand resting on Trevor’s back, grounding him in the moment. “You don’t have to fix it all today,” Josh murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “One step at a time.”

Trevor nodded weakly, his throat too tight to speak. The tears came then, silent and slow, slipping down his cheeks as he hunched over, his face hidden in his hands. It was embarrassing, falling apart like this in front of them, but at the same time, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He’d been holding it in for too long, and now the dam had broken.

Vi moved closer, her voice gentle. “We’re here for you, Trev. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

He felt the warmth of her hand on his arm, the quiet, steady presence of his friends surrounding him, holding him up when he couldn’t stand on his own. And for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, Trevor allowed himself to feel it—the weight of their care, their concern, their quiet strength.

It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t make the exhaustion disappear or the ache in his chest go away. But it was enough. Enough to make him realize he didn’t have to keep pretending. Not here, not with them.

Josh reached for the spoon, holding it out gently in front of him. “Just one bite,” he said again, his tone patient. “That’s all we’re asking.”

Trevor hesitated, the weight of the spoon feeling too much, too heavy. But when he met Josh’s eyes, there was no judgment there, just quiet understanding. Slowly, shakily, he took the spoon from Josh’s hand, lifted it to his mouth, and took the smallest bite.

Trevor’s body wasn’t sure what to do with it at first, his hands trembling as he set the spoon down. For a moment, the world felt sharper, the fog lifting just enough for him to breathe, if only for a second.

Josh watched him quietly, his eyes softer now, less intense. He wasn’t pushing anymore, and that small mercy made it easier for Trevor to not fall apart completely. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was patient. Trevor knew they weren’t going to leave until he was okay—or at least until he could convince them that he was on his way to being okay.

“See?” Josh said quietly, nodding toward the bowl. “Just a little bit. That’s all you need right now.”

Trevor didn’t trust himself to speak, but he nodded, his hands still shaking slightly as he reached for the water again. The glass felt heavier than before, like he was holding onto it with everything he had left. He took another small sip, the coolness settling in his throat, soothing the ache that had built there.

Nicole was still beside him, her presence quiet but solid. She didn’t say anything, just stood there, her hand resting gently on his arm, a silent reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere. Vi had moved back to her station but kept glancing over, her brow furrowed in that way she did when she was worried but didn’t want to make it too obvious.

Trevor hated this—the way they were all looking at him like he was fragile, like he might break if they said the wrong thing. But at the same time, he needed it. He needed them. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment, when everything had finally come crashing down around him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he stared down at the bowl in front of him. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and the second they did, his chest tightened again, a wave of guilt washing over him. He hated admitting it, hated how weak it sounded, but it was the truth.

Josh’s hand on his back stayed steady. “You don’t have to know right now,” he said softly. “You just have to take it one step at a time. We’re here for that.”

Trevor blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling over again. His hands were shaking more now, and the shame that burned through him was almost unbearable. “I don’t want to drag you guys into this,” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s not your problem.”

Josh let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he sat down next to Trevor again. “We are in this,” he said, his tone light but firm. “You’re not dragging us into anything. We’re your friends, Trev. This is what we do. You think we’d just let you go through this on your own? You’re  family.”

Trevor couldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t know how to respond, how to accept the weight of that statement without feeling like a burden. The silence felt heavy, and he swallowed hard, trying to push the lump in his throat back down.

“I just… I don’t want to let anyone down,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers clenched around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “I feel like I’m failing.”

Nicole’s voice came from beside him, soft but steady. “You’re not failing. You’re struggling . There’s a difference.”

Trevor’s breath hitched, the words cutting through the fog in his mind. He hadn’t thought of it like that before—struggling felt more human, more like something he could fight through. Failure felt final, like there was no coming back from it. But struggling… maybe there was still a way out.

Josh nodded in agreement, his hand still resting on Trevor’s back, solid and reassuring. “You’re allowed to struggle, man. We all do. But you’re not in this alone.”

Trevor’s throat tightened again, but this time, it wasn’t from guilt or shame. It was from the weight of their words, the understanding in their voices, the way they were holding him up when he felt like he couldn’t stand on his own anymore.

For the first time in a long time, the loneliness that had been gnawing at him eased, just a little. The burden didn’t disappear, but it felt lighter with them around him, their presence steadying him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, the quiet comforting rather than suffocating. Eventually, Josh pushed the bowl back toward him, his expression gentle but firm. “Just a little more,” he said softly. “You don’t have to finish it, but you need something.”

Trevor’s hand froze midair, the spoon trembling between his fingers. He stared down at the bowl, but the food blurred in front of him, the effort to take another bite suddenly too much. His chest tightened, breath catching in his throat as the weight of exhaustion and guilt pressed down harder. He could hear Josh’s voice—gentle, steady—but it felt distant, muffled under the overwhelming pressure that threatened to pull him under.

“I—” Trevor started, but the words got stuck, choking on the thick knot in his throat. He set the spoon down with a quiet clatter, his hand dropping into his lap, the simple act of lifting it again feeling like it would shatter him. His breath came shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to pull himself together, but the more he tried, the more he unraveled.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I just… I can’t.”

He wasn’t sure what he meant anymore—if it was the food, the stress, the crushing weight of pretending he was okay when he was anything but. All of it felt like too much, too tangled and heavy to even begin sorting through. His head dropped forward, shoulders slumping under the weight of his own defeat.

Josh’s hand stayed steady on his back, not pushing, just there. “It’s okay, Trev,” Josh said softly, his voice carrying that calm reassurance that Trevor didn’t feel he deserved. “You don’t have to do this right now. You don’t have to do anything.”

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, the tears burning again, hot and unrelenting. The words were a relief, but they didn’t erase the shame, didn’t stop the feeling that he was letting everyone down. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, his voice cracking. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

The vulnerability in his voice was raw, cutting through the fragile composure he’d been clinging to. He hated showing this side of himself—hated that they had to see him like this. Weak. Broken.

Nicole’s hand, still resting lightly on his arm, tightened just a bit, her grip warm and grounding. “You don’t have to fix it all at once,” she said gently. “Sometimes, the first step is just admitting you need help.”

Trevor shook his head, the motion sharp, a reflexive denial that came from years of holding it all in, of trying to shoulder every burden on his own. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to drag you guys down with me.”

“You’re not a burden,” Josh said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re not dragging anyone down. We want to help you, but you have to let us.”

Trevor opened his mouth to protest, to argue that he wasn’t worth the effort, that they had their own lives and problems to deal with, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat tightened, his chest aching with the effort to hold it all in. The dam was breaking, and he was terrified of what would happen when it did.

He felt Josh shift beside him, felt the warmth of his presence close by, steady and unwavering. “You’ve been carrying this alone for too long,” Josh said quietly. “You don’t have to keep doing that.”

Trevor’s breath hitched, the tears slipping free before he could stop them. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white as he fought against the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t hold it together anymore. He couldn’t keep pretending he was strong enough to handle it all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Josh asked softly, his tone gentle but confused. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Trevor’s shoulders shook, the tears falling faster now, unchecked. “For being like this,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “For not being enough.”

Nicole’s hand tightened on his arm again, and this time, there was no hesitation in her voice when she spoke. “Trevor, you are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

Trevor couldn’t respond, couldn’t find the words to express the turmoil twisting inside him. All he could do was sit there, tears streaming down his face, as the weight of everything he’d been holding in for so long finally broke through.

And Josh, in his steady, quiet way, didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t push Trevor to eat more or to talk when he wasn’t ready. He just sat there, his hand a constant, grounding presence on Trevor’s back, letting him feel what he needed to feel.

“It’s okay,” Josh murmured, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “We’re here. We’ve got you.”

Trevor leaned into that comfort, his tears coming harder now, his breath hitching in sharp gasps as the emotions poured out of him. He wasn’t okay. He didn’t know when—or if—he would be. He tried to take a deeper breath, but his chest ached. His muscles felt tight, his skin too hot, prickling with discomfort. The room started to spin slowly, a nauseating tilt to the left that made his stomach lurch. His head throbbed harder, that dull ache pulsing behind his eyes, sharper now, like needles pressing into his skull. He blinked, trying to clear the fog, but it only grew thicker, blurring the faces of everyone around him.

“Trevor?” Josh’s voice broke through the haze, suddenly closer, his tone sharp with concern. “You okay?”

Trevor opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat felt tight, the words catching on the rising wave of nausea that clenched his stomach painfully. His hand shot out to grip the edge of the counter, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, but it felt like the ground was slipping away from him, like gravity had stopped working and he was floating in a sea of nothingness.

Josh’s hand on his back grew firmer, his voice growing more urgent. “Trev, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I—” Trevor managed, but his voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. He swallowed, trying to force the words out, but all he could do was shake his head, his body trembling uncontrollably now. His chest tightened further, breath coming in shallow gasps, his vision swimming as the room tilted again, this time more violently.

The nausea hit hard and fast. Trevor’s hand shot to his mouth as his stomach twisted painfully. He lurched forward, barely registering the way Josh moved, quick and sharp, grabbing a trash can just as Trevor retched. The heaving was violent, his body shaking as if it were being wrung dry, every muscle tightening painfully with each wave. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—only the sickening sensation of his body giving up on him remained.

He heard voices—Josh, Nicole, Vi—all of them saying something, but it was muffled, like he was underwater. His ears buzzed, the edges of his vision darkening as the nausea gave way to pure dizziness. His body was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to his skin, and everything felt too hot, too tight, too much.

“Trev,” Josh said again, his voice loud in the growing fog. “Hey, stay with me. We need to get you out of here. You’re burning up.”

Trevor tried to lift his head, tried to focus on anything, but his muscles refused to obey. His body felt like it was shutting down, piece by piece, and a deep, overwhelming sense of panic rose in his chest. This was different. This wasn’t just exhaustion. Something was wrong.

“I—can’t,” he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His hand reached out, blindly searching for something solid to hold onto, but he couldn’t find anything. His head swam, the darkness at the edges closing in faster, and all he could hear was his own labored breathing, frantic and shallow.

Josh’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him up from the stool, and Trevor stumbled, his legs barely able to hold his weight. The world tilted violently again, and his knees buckled. Josh held him upright, his grip strong and steady, but Trevor’s legs felt like jelly, his body trembling uncontrollably. His breath hitched again, and before he could stop it, another wave of nausea crashed over him, sending him forward, his body convulsing with dry heaves.

“ Shit, ” Josh muttered, his voice tight with worry now. “Nicole, grab his stuff. We need to get him to the hospital.”

The word hospital cut through the haze, sharp and terrifying. Trevor shook his head weakly, trying to protest, but the words were stuck, his mouth dry, his body too weak to fight anymore. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to be seen like this—helpless, broken.

“No,” he rasped, barely able to form the word. “I’m… I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Josh shot back, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’re not messing around with this, Trevor. You need help.”

Trevor wanted to argue, to push him away, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. The dizziness was overwhelming now, his vision completely blurred. His legs gave out again, and this time, Josh caught him before he could hit the ground. His body felt like dead weight, limp and useless in Josh’s arms, and a wave of humiliation crashed over him.

“Josh, I—” His voice cracked, weak and trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Josh’s response was immediate, his grip tightening. “Stop apologizing. Just focus on staying awake, okay? We’ll get you through this.”

Trevor tried. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to focus on the sounds around him, but everything was fading fast. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, the darkness creeping in until it swallowed everything.

The last thing he felt was Josh’s hand on the back of his head, steady, grounding, as the world slipped away. There was no sound, no sensation, just an empty void that swallowed everything whole. He didn’t know how long he floated in that darkness—minutes, hours? Days, maybe? Time didn’t exist here. He was weightless, adrift in a sea of nothing, detached from his body and mind, a faint echo of himself.

Then, slowly, the darkness began to peel away.

The first thing he became aware of was warmth. Not the uncomfortable, feverish heat that had consumed him before, but a gentle, comforting warmth that seeped into his skin, easing the tension in his muscles. The soft hum of something mechanical buzzed in the background—steady, rhythmic, like the pulse of a machine. And beneath that, faint but steady, was the sound of breathing—his own, deep and even, no longer labored or ragged.

He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy, trying to pull himself back into consciousness. Everything felt sluggish, like he was moving through syrup, his limbs leaden and unresponsive. The air around him was cool, the faint scent of antiseptic filling his nostrils. A hospital, he realized with a sinking feeling. He was in a hospital.

His chest tightened as fragments of memory returned—collapsing, Josh’s panicked voice, the crushing wave of nausea, his body giving up on him. Shame coiled in his gut, twisting painfully, but there was nothing he could do now. He couldn’t undo the fact that he’d pushed himself too far. He couldn’t take back the way he’d fallen apart in front of everyone.

The faintest shift of movement beside him caught his attention, and Trevor blinked again, forcing his eyes to focus. There, slouched in the chair next to the bed, was Josh. His head was resting in his hands, his face hidden, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. Even in sleep, Josh looked worried, his body curled in on itself like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Trevor’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, to apologize, to thank him, anything, but the words lodged in his throat. How many times had Josh gone out of his way to look out for him? How many times had he ignored it, pushed him away, because he didn’t want to admit how badly he needed help?

“Josh…” His voice was a weak croak, barely audible in the quiet room.

Josh’s head snapped up immediately, his eyes wide and alert as he registered Trevor’s voice. For a moment, he just stared, as if he couldn’t quite believe Trevor was awake. Then his shoulders slumped in visible relief, and he let out a shaky breath.

“Jesus, Trevor,” Josh muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Trevor tried to offer a weak smile, but it fell flat. His throat felt raw, his body heavy and weak. He shifted slightly, trying to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he fell back against the pillows with a groan.

“Don’t—just stay put,” Josh said quickly, leaning forward to press a gentle hand to Trevor’s shoulder, stopping him from trying to move again. “You’re still recovering.”

“Sorry,” Trevor rasped, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t… mean for this to happen.”

Josh’s expression softened, his hand lingering on Trevor’s shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize, Trev. You’ve been running yourself into the ground. This was bound to catch up to you eventually.”

“I should’ve known better,” Trevor muttered, frustration and embarrassment simmering beneath the surface. “I just… I didn’t want to stop. I couldn’t.”

“I get it,” Josh said quietly, his eyes full of understanding. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re not invincible, Trevor. None of us are.”

Trevor swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him. “I didn’t want to let you guys down.”

“You didn’t,” Josh said firmly, squeezing his shoulder. “We care about you. This isn’t about work, or Mythical Kitchen, or whatever else you’ve been stressing over. This is about you—your health, your well-being. That’s what matters.”

Trevor’s eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the flood of emotion threatening to break through. He’d been so focused on not being a burden, on keeping it together for everyone else, that he’d lost sight of the fact that they cared about him too. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They just needed him to be okay.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor whispered, his voice trembling.

Josh shook his head. “Stop saying sorry. You don’t owe me an apology. You just need to take care of yourself.”

Trevor nodded weakly, his throat tight with emotion. He didn’t trust himself to speak anymore, afraid that if he did, he’d break down all over again.

Josh sat back in his chair, his eyes still watching Trevor closely, but the tension in his face had eased slightly. “You’ve got a lot of people who care about you, you know? We’re all here for you, whether you like it or not.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at Trevor’s lips despite himself. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, huh?”

“Nope,” Josh said with a grin. As the exhaustion settled back into his bones, Trevor’s mind began to whirl with questions. The weight of the situation wasn’t lost on him; collapsing like that wasn’t something he could brush off anymore, and it wasn’t something he could ignore when he returned to work. He’d pushed too hard, and now there were consequences. But what did that even mean?

He opened his eyes again, blinking slowly in the dim light of the hospital room, trying to focus on the logistics of what came next. He had projects lined up—deadlines, shoots, meetings, everything tightly scheduled. He couldn’t just disappear from Mythical Kitchen or leave everyone scrambling to cover for him. The idea of stepping away, of admitting to Josh, Rhett, and Link, and the rest of the team that he needed time off, made his stomach twist.

But what choice did he have now?

Josh, who was still sitting beside him, seemed to sense the shift in Trevor’s mood. His hand hadn’t left Trevor’s shoulder, offering silent reassurance. “You’re thinking too much again,” Josh said softly.

Trevor let out a shaky breath. “I just… I don’t know how this is going to work. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just stop working.”

Josh sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not going to lose your job or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The thought of taking time off left a gaping pit in Trevor's stomach. As Josh's reassuring words washed over him, all he could think about was the work piling up. Not just Mythical Kitchen, but Smosh too. He was needed there, on set, in shoots, planning stunts and sketches. Both places relied on him, and he didn’t know how to juggle it all anymore—but somehow, he had been managing.

Now that felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

He lay there, muscles aching, body drained, as fear gnawed at him like a sickness. What was going to happen? He couldn’t afford to fall behind at Smosh or Mythical Kitchen. He didn’t want to lose ground. He’d worked so hard to keep himself together—to push, to prove he could do it all. But now? Now he was failing.

The reality of it hit him in the chest like a sledgehammer. He couldn’t even keep himself standing.

His throat tightened as the panic bloomed. He couldn’t keep anything together.

“Trevor?” Josh’s voice broke through the haze of dread, but Trevor only half-registered it. He couldn’t stop the spiral in his mind. He was supposed to have control. He had to, because everything else was slipping.

His stomach growled, the hunger clawing at him from the inside. When was the last time he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember. But instead of feeling like something was wrong, it gave him the tiniest bit of control. At least that was something he could dictate. He could deny himself food. He could say no. It was the only thing he had power over anymore.

“I’m fine,” Trevor rasped, though he didn’t believe it. His eyes remained unfocused, his mind churning as he stared blankly at the sterile hospital ceiling. His chest felt heavy, almost like something was pressing down on him.

Josh frowned, studying him more closely. “You’re not fine, and you don’t have to say that anymore.”

Trevor’s mouth twisted bitterly. He didn’t know how to explain that this fear wasn’t just about losing time at work. It was bigger than that. It was the fear that he was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing he could do to hold himself together. He was crumbling, and with that collapse, he felt utterly out of control.

“Look, I… I can’t just stop working. You don’t get it.” His voice was tight, as if every word pulled on a taut thread inside him, threatening to snap. “I have Mythical Kitchen and Smosh. If I stop now, I lose everything I’ve been holding on to.”

“You won’t lose anything,” Josh said, his voice low, steady, like he was trying to anchor him to reality. “You need rest. No one is going to take anything away from you for that.”

Trevor swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “It’s not about that. It’s… It’s about not being enough. I need to be enough. If I can’t keep it together, if I can’t push through it, then what am I? What’s the point?”

Josh’s eyes softened, but Trevor didn’t want to see pity. He turned his head away, struggling to keep his breathing steady. That gnawing hunger deepened, but he didn’t want to feed it. He deserved to feel it. The pain grounded him. It was a choice he had control over, unlike everything else that seemed to be slipping away.

"Trevor, listen," Josh said, gently, not letting go. "I know it feels like you’re drowning. But starving yourself? Pushing yourself to this point? That’s not going to give you control. It’s going to make everything worse.”

Trevor’s heart raced, guilt mixing with frustration. "You don't get it," he muttered, his voice shaking. "If I just keep working… if I just keep going, I can handle it. I can keep everything from falling apart."

"Your body is shutting down, man. You are falling apart." Josh leaned closer, his voice firm. "And trying to starve yourself because you think you can control that? That’s not the way. That’s just you hurting yourself more. And I don’t want to see you destroy yourself because you think you’re not enough."

The words stung, and Trevor closed his eyes tightly, trying to block it all out—the concern in Josh’s voice, the pressure in his own chest, the overwhelming feeling of failure. He wished it would all just stop, but it wouldn’t.

He felt like he was drowning, and the hunger only seemed to amplify that sense of drowning. The control he sought only deepened the chaos. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t know any other way to cope. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed, convincing himself that if he just worked harder, if he just kept going, he could prove his worth. But now, everything felt like it was unraveling—his body, his mind, his sense of self.

“I can’t,” Trevor whispered, barely able to get the words out. His throat tightened painfully. “I don’t know how to stop. I can’t stop…”

Josh’s grip on his shoulder tightened, and Trevor felt the overwhelming desire to just break down, to let the weight crush him, but he was too afraid. Afraid of what it meant to finally admit defeat.

"You don’t have to keep doing this," Josh said quietly, his voice so gentle now. "You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Not to yourself. You’re enough as you are, Trev. And I know you’re scared—of losing control, of letting things fall apart. But killing yourself with stress and hunger isn't control. It’s surrender. And we’re here to help you through this."

Tears welled up behind Trevor's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. The fear and exhaustion, the hunger that he’d used to keep his anxiety at bay, all swirled inside him, pulling him under. For so long, he’d been clinging to the idea that he had to be stronger, had to keep pushing no matter the cost. But now, that cost was becoming too steep.

Trevor’s voice cracked as he whispered, “I don’t know how to let go.”

Josh nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But the first step is letting someone else take the weight for a while. Let us take care of you. And I promise, when you’re ready, you’ll be able to come back stronger. Not because you pushed through it, but because you gave yourself the time to heal.”

As the hours passed, the hum of the hospital filled the room, the sterile lights casting soft shadows over Trevor’s still form. Josh stayed close, his hand resting on the bed’s edge, offering quiet reassurance. Trevor forced a small, tired smile, his eyelids heavy with fatigue but his mind restless. He knew Josh meant well—he always did—but the hollow ache in his chest wasn’t something a few kind words could fix.

He wasn’t sure anything could.

"Thanks, man," Trevor said, his voice hoarse and worn. "I’ll… I’ll try to take it easy for a while. You’re right. I should rest." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, and he hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt. He didn’t want to worry Josh any more than he already had.

Josh squeezed his shoulder lightly, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “That’s all I’m asking. One day at a time, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Trevor nodded, but deep down, he felt the weight of the truth pressing down on him, suffocating in its certainty. He wanted to believe he could get better, that resting would fix everything, but he knew himself too well. The cycle was too ingrained. He had pushed for so long that stopping felt impossible.

The hunger, the exhaustion, the pressure to keep going—it wasn’t something that would just disappear with a few days of sleep or a meal. It was deeper than that. He’d woven it into his identity, tied it so tightly to his self-worth that letting it go felt like unraveling a part of who he was. Who was he if he wasn’t pushing himself to the limit?

As much as he wanted to believe in Josh’s words, the truth gnawed at him from the inside. He’d pretend to get better. He’d rest for a while, maybe even take some time off—but eventually, the fear would creep back in. The feeling of losing control, of not being enough, would swallow him again. And when it did, he’d go back to starving himself, to pushing through the pain, because that was the only way he knew how to cope.

But he couldn’t tell Josh that. He couldn’t tell anyone.

“I’ll get better,” Trevor whispered, the words barely audible, like a fragile promise he already knew he couldn’t keep.

Josh smiled softly, his eyes filled with hope, and Trevor felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut. He hated lying to him, hated pretending that things would change. But it was easier this way. Easier to let Josh believe in the happy ending, to hold onto that hope—for both of them.

Because Trevor couldn’t.

As Josh stood to leave, giving him one last pat on the arm, Trevor closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally dragging him under. He listened to Josh’s footsteps fade away, the warmth of his presence disappearing with him, leaving Trevor alone in the quiet, sterile room.

The stillness settled over him like a heavy blanket, and for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that maybe—just maybe—things would be okay. That he could heal, that he could let go of the fear that controlled him.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, the weight of reality pressed down, reminding him of the truth he couldn’t escape.

He wouldn’t get better. Not really.

He’d keep pretending, keep smiling, keep telling everyone he was fine, even as he unraveled. Because that was all he knew how to do. And deep down, Trevor accepted it. The hunger, the exhaustion, the fear—it would always be there, waiting for him, pulling him under. And one day, it would swallow him whole.

But for now, he’d rest. For now, he’d pretend. And maybe that was enough.

Chapter Text

Josh stepped out of the Mythical office, the evening air cool against his skin as he absentmindedly scrolled through his phone. It was supposed to be a routine end to a long day. But as he rounded the corner, his foot caught on something heavy. He stumbled, eyes snapping down, and his heart lurched.

There, slumped against the wall, was Trevor.

Blood.

Josh’s stomach dropped. Trevor’s shirt was soaked through, dark and slick with a crimson stain that spread in slow, menacing rivulets toward the pavement. A deep cut stretched across Trevor’s side, and the sight of it sent a shock of icy panic coursing through Josh’s veins.

"Trevor!" His voice came out raw, frantic.

Trevor’s head lolled toward the sound, his eyes barely open, blinking sluggishly as if he couldn’t quite place where he was. His breath came in shallow gasps, the kind that made Josh’s chest tighten in fear.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," Josh muttered, dropping to his knees beside him, his hands hovering uselessly for a second before instinct kicked in. He tore at the hem of his shirt, the fabric ripping with a sharp tear, and pressed it firmly against the wound. Trevor winced, a low groan slipping past his lips.

"Come on, man, you're okay," Josh whispered, his own voice shaking as he fumbled for his phone. His hands trembled as he dialed for help, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand kept the makeshift bandage tight against the wound.

Trevor’s eyes fluttered shut, his face pale, and for a moment, Josh’s heart stopped. "Trevor, don’t—stay awake, please. Talk to me." He shook his shoulder gently, panic clawing at his chest. "Trevor, look at me!"

Trevor’s eyelids twitched, and his head rolled back against the wall. "I’m... I'm fine," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. But Josh could see the truth in his glassy eyes, in the slackening grip of his fingers as he weakly tried to hold onto Josh’s arm.

"You’re not fine," Josh muttered, his throat tightening. His hands were slick with Trevor’s blood, and the pressure against the wound felt futile, like it wasn’t enough. "Help’s coming, okay? Just stay with me."

Trevor's gaze wavered, unfocused, as if he was staring through Josh. The streetlights overhead buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows on the grim scene, making everything feel surreal.

"Josh…" Trevor’s voice was barely audible, more breath than sound. His head lolled to the side again, eyes slipping closed.

"No, no, no, don’t do that," Josh snapped, shaking his shoulder harder now. "Stay awake, Trevor. Come on, stay with me!" His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. Trevor couldn’t pass out now. Not like this.

In the distance, sirens wailed, faint but approaching. Josh let out a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice steady for Trevor’s sake. "Hear that? Help’s on the way. You’re going to be okay. Just hang on a little longer." But inside, the fear gnawed at him, relentless.

Trevor's breath hitched, a labored rasp, and his head slumped forward. Josh felt his heart stop for a split second before he shook Trevor again, more desperately this time.

"Trevor! Don’t you dare—stay awake, you hear me? Stay with me!" His voice was harsh, pleading, as if sheer willpower could keep Trevor conscious. His hands pressed harder against the wound, blood still seeping through the fabric.

The sirens grew louder, closer, and Josh’s chest heaved with relief and terror all at once. He kept muttering reassurances, half to himself, half to Trevor, as his friend’s breathing grew shallow and uneven. Every second felt like an eternity.

Finally, flashing lights illuminated the street, and medics rushed toward them. Josh barely registered their voices as they moved in, taking over. His hands were slick with blood, trembling as they guided him away to give them space. He stood there, numb, watching as they worked to stabilize Trevor, the reality of what had just happened crashing down on him all at once.

"Please," Josh whispered, barely audible, "he has to be okay." Josh stood off to the side as the paramedics worked, his chest heaving with adrenaline and the bitter sting of fear still gnawing at him. He wiped his bloodstained hands on his jeans, watching helplessly as they loaded Trevor onto the stretcher. His mind kept looping back to the moment he had found him—the sight of Trevor crumpled against the wall, the blood, the way he had barely stayed conscious.

“Hey, we’re going to take him to the hospital,” one of the paramedics called over, giving Josh a grim but reassuring nod. “He’s stable, but you should come with us. Talk to him, keep him awake.”

Josh nodded wordlessly, scrambling into the back of the ambulance and sitting beside Trevor, who lay pale and barely alert on the stretcher. His breathing was shallow, eyes half-lidded, but he seemed to register Josh’s presence.

“Trevor, can you hear me?” Josh asked, his voice low but insistent, his hand finding Trevor’s arm and squeezing it gently.

Trevor’s eyelids fluttered, and he gave a small, barely perceptible nod. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to form any words. "Josh…" His voice was hoarse, strained. "I… I didn’t—"

“Don’t talk too much, man. Save your energy,” Josh muttered, though deep down, he wanted to hear something—anything—that would make sense of the nightmare he’d stumbled into.

But Trevor shook his head weakly, his fingers twitching against the stretcher as if he was fighting to stay grounded. "They... they came out of nowhere," he rasped, his gaze flicking toward Josh, though there was something distant in his eyes, like he wasn’t really seeing him. "Two of ‘em… maybe three. I didn’t see… didn’t see their faces."

Josh’s heart clenched. "What did they want? Did they—" He cut himself off, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer.

Trevor swallowed, his throat working hard to get the words out. "They didn’t… say anything. Just—just grabbed me. Pushed me… against the wall." His breath hitched, and his eyes widened briefly, like he was reliving the moment all over again.

Josh’s hand tightened on Trevor’s arm, grounding him. "You’re safe now, okay? They’re gone. It’s over."

But Trevor wasn’t hearing him. His gaze had gone glassy, his chest rising and falling too fast. His breaths were shallow, panicked, like he was back there in that moment, trapped in the alley. "I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop them. Tried to push back, but they—"

"Hey, hey, you’re safe now," Josh said firmly, leaning closer so Trevor could focus on him. "Trevor, look at me. You’re here. They’re not. It’s over."

Trevor’s breathing stuttered, his eyes darting wildly around the cramped space of the ambulance as if expecting another attack at any moment. His body tensed, his muscles twitching as if he was ready to fight or flee.

Josh gently cupped Trevor’s face, forcing his gaze to meet his. "Trevor, listen to me. Focus on my voice, okay? You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now."

Trevor’s eyes finally found Josh’s, the wildness in them slowly dimming as Josh’s words sunk in. He blinked, his breath coming out in ragged bursts. "I thought…" His voice cracked, tears brimming in his eyes, "I thought I wasn’t going to make it."

"You’re gonna make it," Josh said, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re here with me. You’re not going anywhere."

Trevor closed his eyes, his body sagging back against the stretcher as if the fight had finally left him. He let out a shaky breath, one that turned into a soft, broken sob.

Josh didn’t let go of his arm, even as the ambulance rocked along the streets toward the hospital. He sat there, holding onto Trevor, silently promising that whatever had happened, whatever fear had gripped him—it wouldn’t have to hold him anymore. The ambulance rattled over another bump in the road, and Trevor stirred, his body tensing at the sudden jolt. Josh squeezed his arm gently, keeping him grounded in the present. He watched as Trevor blinked blearily, his breathing still uneven but calmer than before. Josh could see the exhaustion in his friend’s face, the weight of everything that had happened bearing down on him.

Trevor’s eyes flickered open again, focusing on Josh, though his gaze remained distant, unfocused. "I didn’t think… they’d come after me like that." His voice was faint, the words slurred with fatigue, but the tremor in it made Josh’s heart ache.

"Do you know who they were?" Josh asked softly, not pushing but needing to understand. "Why they’d target you?"

Trevor’s brow furrowed in thought, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to remember. But then his eyes clouded again, a distant look of fear creeping back into his expression. "I don’t… know," he whispered, his fingers twitching as if trying to grasp onto something tangible. "It was so fast. One minute I was heading to my car, and the next they were on me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything."

Josh’s grip tightened, and he leaned in closer. "You did enough, Trev. You’re here. You fought back."

Trevor swallowed hard, his breathing quickening again. His eyes darted to the corners of the ambulance as if the shadows might leap out at him. "I tried," he whispered. "But I couldn’t stop them. I was so… scared." His voice broke, and Josh could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the telltale sign of panic creeping back in.

"Trevor, look at me," Josh said gently but firmly, his hand cupping the side of Trevor’s face, grounding him in the here and now. "You did everything you could, and you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you again. I’m right here."

Trevor’s eyes flickered toward Josh, and for a moment, he seemed to relax, the tension in his body loosening. But then, as if triggered by something Josh couldn’t see, his body tensed up again, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps.

"They held me down," Trevor muttered, his eyes widening in terror as he recalled the moment. "I couldn’t… I couldn’t move. I kept thinking I was going to die right there." His voice cracked, and Josh could hear the helplessness beneath it, the fear that still clung to him.

Josh felt his own chest tighten. He couldn’t imagine what that must have been like—being jumped, overpowered, outnumbered. The helplessness that Trevor was feeling now, the terror that had taken root deep inside him, was all too real. Josh bit down the wave of anger that rose in him, focusing instead on keeping his voice steady, calm.

"You’re not alone now," Josh whispered. "I’ve got you. We’re almost at the hospital, and you’re going to be okay."

Trevor’s gaze flicked between Josh and the unfamiliar surroundings of the ambulance, his body trembling slightly as he fought to keep from slipping back into that moment. "I… I didn’t think I’d make it," he repeated, his voice barely a breath. "I thought… I was gonna bleed out in the alley."

Josh clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to break free. "You didn’t," he said, his voice thick but resolute. "You didn’t bleed out. I found you. We’re getting you help, and you’re going to be okay."

But Trevor wasn’t so easily convinced. His hand twitched, fingers curling into the fabric of his bloodstained shirt as if he could still feel the weight of his attackers pressing him down. "It won’t stop," he whispered, almost to himself. "I can’t… stop seeing it. Over and over."

Josh swallowed hard, wishing there was something he could say that would take that pain away, that fear. But he knew from the look in Trevor’s eyes that this moment had marked him, left something behind that wouldn’t heal as easily as the physical wounds.

The ambulance pulled to a stop, and the doors swung open. The paramedics moved quickly, guiding the stretcher out, and Josh followed closely behind, staying near Trevor’s side. His mind raced as he watched the medics wheel his friend into the ER, his own fear starting to meld with an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

Trevor’s eyes found Josh’s one last time before they took him through the doors to the operating room. "Josh…" he rasped, his voice weak but desperate, as if he was reaching out for some kind of reassurance.

Josh stepped forward, squeezing Trevor’s hand one more time. "I’m here. You’re gonna be okay. I promise."

A few days later, the hospital finally discharged Trevor. Josh had barely left his side during those days, staying late after work, keeping him company, and making sure he had everything he needed. The doctors said Trevor would heal in time, physically at least, but Josh knew better than anyone that the real recovery would be much slower.

Trevor looked small, hunched under the weight of it all as he limped out of the hospital, his arm in a sling, bandages still covering the deeper cuts. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, the haunted look he couldn’t quite shake still clinging to him.

"Ready?" Josh asked softly, walking beside him, a careful hand hovering near Trevor’s back in case he needed support.

Trevor didn’t answer immediately, his eyes focused on the ground as if the world around him was too overwhelming. But after a moment, he gave a slow nod. "Yeah," he mumbled, though the lack of conviction in his voice told a different story.

The ride back to Josh’s place was quiet. Trevor kept his head resting against the window, staring out at the passing streets with a faraway look in his eyes. Josh stole glances at him, trying to gauge what he could say, how to reach him. But the tension between them felt fragile, as if too much pressure might shatter whatever strength Trevor had left.

When they finally pulled up to Josh’s apartment, Trevor hesitated. He sat in the car for a long moment, his hand gripping the door handle tightly, knuckles white. Josh gave him space, waiting patiently until Trevor finally let out a shaky breath and pushed the door open.

"Come on," Josh said, keeping his tone light. "You can crash in my room, and I’ll take the couch. We’ll keep it low-key for a bit."

Trevor nodded absently, following Josh inside without a word. The apartment was warm, familiar, a safe space compared to the stark, sterile hospital rooms. Josh had tidied up a bit in anticipation of Trevor staying with him, making sure the place felt as comfortable as possible.

As they stepped inside, Trevor seemed to relax a little, though his shoulders remained tense. "You don’t have to give up your bed," he muttered quietly, glancing around.

"Don’t worry about it," Josh replied, guiding Trevor to the bedroom. "You need it more than I do right now."

Trevor sat on the edge of the bed, his movements slow and stiff. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low as if the weight of everything was pressing down harder now that he was out of the hospital. Josh watched him carefully, trying to keep his own worry in check.

"You okay?" Josh asked after a beat, standing in the doorway, unsure of how much to push.

Trevor’s hand went to his chest, pressing lightly against the bandages there. His breath hitched, and for a moment, Josh thought he wouldn’t respond. Then, Trevor shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "No."

Josh’s heart clenched. He crossed the room and sat beside Trevor, careful not to crowd him but close enough to let him know he wasn’t alone. "It’s going to take time," Josh said softly, his eyes focused on Trevor’s pale, shaking hands. "You don’t have to be okay right now."

Trevor didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I keep hearing them," he whispered, his voice tight with fear. "The footsteps behind me, the sounds when they... when they hit me. I close my eyes, and it’s like I’m back there." His voice broke, and his shoulders trembled as if the memories were suffocating him.

Josh felt his chest tighten. He wished more than anything that he could take those memories away, pull Trevor out of the nightmare that kept pulling him back. "You’re safe now," Josh said quietly, placing a gentle hand on Trevor’s back. "No one’s going to hurt you here."

Trevor let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He pressed his palms against his eyes, his breathing uneven. "I just keep thinking… what if they come back? What if next time—"

"They won’t." Josh’s voice was firm, but not harsh. "You’re safe here, Trev. I’ll make sure of it."

Trevor’s hands dropped from his face, and for the first time since they’d left the hospital, he turned to look at Josh, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I don’t know how to stop feeling like this," he admitted, his voice small and full of pain. "Like I’m waiting for something bad to happen again."

Josh felt a knot form in his throat. "You don’t have to figure it out right away," he said gently. "One step at a time, yeah? You’re not alone in this."

Trevor nodded again, but the look in his eyes told Josh he wasn’t convinced. Still, he didn’t argue, just let out a long, tired breath. "Thanks," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Josh gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Anytime, man. We’ll take it day by day. For now, just rest. You’re safe here, okay?"

Trevor didn’t respond right away, but after a few moments, he gave a slight nod, his body sagging with exhaustion. He slowly lay back on the bed, his hand still clutching the edge of the blanket as if he needed something to hold onto.

Josh stood and quietly left the room, giving Trevor the space he needed. But as he settled onto the couch, his thoughts remained with Trevor—how he could help him heal, how he could make sure Trevor felt safe again.

One evening, the apartment was steeped in a comfortable silence. Josh had made dinner—a simple pasta—and coaxed Trevor out of the room to eat. Now they sat on the couch, the warm glow of a single lamp lighting the space, their plates abandoned on the coffee table. Trevor leaned back, his body still stiff with lingering pain, though the tension in his shoulders had lessened. Josh sat beside him, close enough that their legs brushed, but neither of them pulled away.

"You’re getting better," Josh said softly, his eyes focused on Trevor’s profile. The way the shadows caught his features made him look more vulnerable than usual, his defenses lowered in the quiet of the moment.

Trevor huffed out a small, humorless laugh, staring down at his hands. "Feels like I’m faking it," he muttered. "Like… I’m here, but I’m not really. You know?"

Josh didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let the words hang in the air, his gaze flicking to where their knees touched, the gentle contact grounding them both. "I get it," he murmured after a moment. "But you’re not faking it. Just showing up—that’s enough right now."

Trevor’s jaw clenched, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers traced the outline of the bandage still wrapped around his forearm, a constant reminder of the attack. "I feel like I’m wasting your time," he admitted, his voice tight, almost ashamed. "You’ve been taking care of me like… like I’m helpless."

Josh frowned at that. Without thinking, he reached out, his hand resting lightly on Trevor’s back, his touch soft but steady. "You’re not wasting my time," he said quietly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made Trevor glance over, startled by the warmth in Josh’s eyes. "I want to be here. I want to help."

The sincerity in Josh’s voice made something twist inside Trevor’s chest. He wanted to argue, to push away that feeling of being cared for, but the weight of Josh’s hand on his back, the quiet concern in his voice—it all felt too good, too needed.

"You don’t have to do all of this," Trevor whispered, his eyes falling to the floor again, avoiding Josh’s gaze. "I’m not your responsibility."

"I know," Josh replied softly, and his hand slid from Trevor’s back to his shoulder, the contact lingering a little longer this time. "But I want to. You’re important to me, Trev."

The words hit Trevor harder than he expected, and his heart skipped a beat, a flush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that—how much he’d been craving that kind of reassurance.

Trevor swallowed hard, and without thinking, he leaned into Josh’s touch just a little, like a moth drawn to warmth. "I don’t deserve all this attention," he mumbled, his voice unsteady. "I’m a mess."

"You’re not a mess," Josh said firmly, shifting closer, his knee pressing fully against Trevor’s now, the warmth between them unmistakable. "You’ve been through hell. You deserve more care than you’re letting yourself accept."

Trevor’s breath caught in his throat, the proximity between them suddenly feeling more charged, more intimate. His gaze flicked to Josh’s face, and he found Josh already looking at him—those steady, soft eyes that always seemed to see right through him. Trevor felt his pulse quicken, something raw and unspoken hovering in the air between them.

"Josh…" Trevor’s voice was barely a whisper, but it held a question, a hesitation. He didn’t know where this moment was leading, but something about it felt different—closer, heavier.

Josh didn’t pull back, didn’t break the tension. Instead, he moved his hand from Trevor’s shoulder to his arm, tracing lightly over the bandages before settling just above Trevor’s wrist, his thumb brushing gently against the skin. "You don’t have to go through this alone," he said, his voice low and intimate, like a secret shared between only them.

The touch, the softness in Josh’s voice—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. Trevor’s breath came a little faster, and he finally met Josh’s gaze, his heart thudding in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain the pull he felt toward Josh, the comfort and the… something else, something he wasn’t quite ready to name.

But Josh seemed to understand without words. His hand lingered on Trevor’s arm, and for a brief, electric moment, their eyes held—something unspoken passing between them. Josh’s lips parted, as if he was about to say something, but he hesitated, the weight of the moment stretching between them.

"I’m not going anywhere," Josh finally murmured, his voice almost a caress. "I’ve got you."

Trevor’s heart raced at the closeness, the warmth of Josh’s hand still resting on his arm, grounding him in a way that nothing else could. And for the first time in days, Trevor felt something other than fear. He felt safe. Not just because Josh was there, but because Josh was… everything.

Trevor nodded, his throat tight. "I know," he whispered, his voice barely audible, but in that single moment, it felt like he was admitting to more than just the fear. He leaned into Josh, who welcomed the touch as a sign something was changing, his head resting on Josh’s shoulder. Josh didn’t flinch. In fact, he shifted slightly, adjusting so that his arm was wrapped around Trevor’s back, pulling him closer. For a few moments, they sat like that, neither of them speaking. Josh felt the weight of Trevor’s head on his shoulder, the warmth of his body pressed against his side, and he let himself sink into the comfort of it. The world outside—everything that had happened, the attack, the nightmares—faded into the background. All that mattered was here, now, in the quiet of Josh’s apartment, Trevor’s head on his shoulder where Josh could take care of him.

Because at the end of the day, that’s all he really wanted; to keep Trevor safe.

Chapter Text

Trevor sat on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, staring down at his fingers as they twisted together. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the kind of silence that followed an argument, where words still hung like a bitter aftertaste. He hadn’t meant to snap, but everything had been building for weeks, and it felt like no one noticed—not even Josh.

It wasn’t just the workload. It was the feeling that he didn’t quite fit anymore, like everyone else was moving forward and he was stuck in place. Josh’s larger-than-life personality filled the room, always the center of attention, always the one driving things forward. Trevor was used to that—they’d always worked well together—but recently, he felt like he was being overshadowed.

What made it worse was that no one seemed to notice, especially not Josh. The playful teasing, the offhand comments, things that never would’ve bothered Trevor before, now stung more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t just about the work. It was about everything—the little things that built up over time until they were too heavy to carry.

Tonight had been the breaking point. It started with something small, a harmless joke during a team meeting. Josh had made a remark, something about Trevor being late or messing up a recipe. It was light, casual, the kind of comment that usually wouldn’t faze him. But today, it hit all the wrong nerves. Trevor snapped back, something sharp and defensive, and suddenly the tension that had been simmering for weeks exploded into a full-blown argument.

The words came fast and hot, cutting deeper than either of them intended. Trevor couldn’t even remember half of what he said, just that it felt like everything he’d been holding in for weeks spilled out all at once. Josh, caught off guard, fired back, and before either of them knew it, they were standing on opposite sides of the room, staring each other down like they were strangers instead of best friends.

Now, the anger had drained out of him, leaving only a hollow ache in its place. Trevor’s chest felt tight, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He wasn’t just upset about the argument; he was upset about everything. How Josh hadn’t noticed how much he was struggling. How the space between them seemed to grow with every passing day. How Trevor felt more alone than he ever had, even when they were working side by side.

Trevor let out a shaky breath, his eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t know how to explain it, and that made it worse. The frustration, the exhaustion, the feeling of being left behind—it was all too much. And now, after all of that, the only thing left was the silence, heavy and painful.

Trevor stood, moving until he was stood by the doorway, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if the chill in the room could be warded off by his own embrace. He hadn’t said much all night, not after the argument that had spiraled so quickly, leaving raw words and sharper silences in its wake. Josh had been pacing for a while now, his energy usually bright and full of life, now dim and restless.

Eventually, Josh stopped pacing and looked at Trevor. The air between them felt thick, a strange mixture of frustration, regret, and something heavier neither of them had the words for.

“Trevor, can we just—” Josh began, but Trevor shook his head, cutting him off.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Trevor whispered, his voice hollow, tired. His body sagged against the doorframe, as if it was the only thing holding him up.

Josh’s expression softened, the fight draining out of him all at once. “Neither do I.”

He hesitated for a moment, then took a step closer, his gaze locked on Trevor’s, searching for permission, for some sign that it was okay to bridge the gap between them. When Trevor didn’t move, Josh closed the distance and pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t the type of hug they usually shared—this one was tense, almost stiff, like both of them were scared of what it meant. But Josh held on, his arms firm around Trevor’s back, and that’s when Trevor felt it—the sharp sting of emotion, a flood of grief and hurt that had been buried under their argument. It hit all at once, like a punch to the gut.

The pain wasn’t physical, not really. It was the weight of everything unspoken, everything that had led them here. The hug wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating, like all the feelings they’d tried to push away had been trapped in this one moment, and now there was no escaping them.

Trevor’s body tensed, his breath caught in his throat, but Josh didn’t let go. He held on tighter, as if he could squeeze out the pain, even as it felt like the hug itself was making it worse. Trevor’s eyes burned, and he squeezed them shut, willing himself not to break. Not here, not like this.

“I’m sorry,” Josh whispered, his voice cracking with something that sounded like it had been waiting to come out for a long time.

Trevor’s chest tightened, and for a second, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. The hug was too much, too close. His heart ached in a way that made him want to pull away, to escape the intensity of it all. But he couldn’t. He didn’t.

Instead, he clung to Josh, even as the pain twisted inside him. It hurt, but it was the kind of hurt that meant something—that maybe they weren’t as broken as he thought. That maybe, they could still find a way to be okay.

Trevor exhaled shakily, burying his face against Josh’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but the hug lingered, painful in all the ways that mattered.

Chapter Text

Trevor winced as the sharp sting of the cut on his arm shot through him, but he played it off with a quick laugh. The stunt had gone wrong, sure, but it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. It wasn’t even the worst injury he’d had on set. He glanced at the blood seeping through his sleeve, trying to shake it off with a shrug.

"It’s fine," he muttered, flexing his hand as if to prove his point. "We can keep going."

Courtney, standing a few feet away, narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t buying it. Not even close.

“Dude, you’re bleeding,” she said flatly, stepping closer.

“Yeah, but—” Trevor started, raising his arm to emphasize that he was fine, only to flinch at the pain shooting through him. He quickly hid the reaction behind a grin. “It’s not a big deal. Really.”

Courtney crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Not a big deal? You’re literally leaking all over set.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer, already grabbing a first-aid kit from a nearby table. Trevor sighed, running a hand through his hair, and took a step back.

“Courtney, seriously, I’m good. We’ve got a whole schedule to keep—”

“Nope.” Courtney’s tone was final as she stalked back over to him. “We’re not doing anything until I clean that up. Let me see.”

She reached for his arm, but Trevor jerked away, trying to laugh it off. “I’ve had worse, okay? Just slap a band-aid on it, and I’ll—”

“Trevor,” she cut him off, her voice firm but softer now, “stop being stubborn. You’re not fine.”

Her eyes softened, and Trevor hesitated, his bravado faltering. It wasn’t just about the cut, not really. He hated being fussed over, especially when everyone was working hard. He didn’t want to be the one slowing things down. But Courtney wasn’t budging, and the look she gave him made it clear that this was non-negotiable.

With a resigned sigh, he held out his arm.

“Thank you,” Courtney muttered, more to herself than to him, as she gently pulled up his sleeve to get a better look at the gash. Her expression tightened, and Trevor glanced away, feeling a little embarrassed.

“See? It’s not that bad,” he mumbled, though even he could hear how weak it sounded.

Courtney ignored him, focused on cleaning the wound. She was gentle but precise, dabbing away the blood with practiced care. Trevor winced when the antiseptic stung, but he bit back any complaints. If there was one thing he’d learned about Courtney, it was that she wasn’t easily deterred once she set her mind on something.

“There,” she said after a moment, carefully wrapping a bandage around his arm. “Better. Now we can talk about the rest of the shoot.”

Trevor looked down at the clean bandage, his defenses crumbling as relief flooded in despite himself.

“Thanks, Court,” he muttered, finally giving in to a sheepish smile.

She grinned back, giving him a light smack on the shoulder. “Next time, don’t try to play the tough guy. You’re too cute for that.”

Chapter Text

Trevor had been driving aimlessly for over an hour. The dull hum of the engine and the rhythmic throb of pain in his side were the only things keeping him grounded. His head was a mess, fogged by exhaustion and the aftershocks of the injury he still couldn’t fully process. It had been stupid—he’d been stupid. That much he knew.

But what he didn’t know was where to go.

He couldn’t go home. His apartment felt too empty, too cold, and the thought of being alone right now, when everything hurt and he could barely think straight, made his chest tighten. He wasn’t ready to face his own silence. The hospital hadn’t been much better—just cold fluorescent lights and the impersonal efficiency of doctors stitching him up, sending him off with a bottle of painkillers and instructions he barely heard.

His phone buzzed on the passenger seat. He hadn’t looked at it since the hospital. The thought of explaining everything to anyone felt like a mountain too steep to climb. He was too tired for explanations. He was too tired for everything.

But the exhaustion was creeping in now, deeper than before. His body felt like it was shutting down, the adrenaline long gone, leaving behind only soreness and fatigue that gnawed at him. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have the energy to make one. And before he could stop himself, he turned the car in the direction of Shayne and Courtney’s place.

It was impulsive, desperate even, but Trevor was too drained to care. They were his friends, the closest people he had to a safety net, even if he hated the idea of relying on it. He clenched the steering wheel tighter as he got closer, that familiar anxiety crawling up his spine. His head filled with the nagging voice telling him he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t burden them, shouldn’t be so needy.

But where else could he go?

By the time he pulled up to their apartment, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement, he could barely keep his hands steady. He sat there in the car for a long moment, the engine still running, just staring at the front door. It felt wrong. Asking for help felt wrong, like admitting some kind of failure. He wasn’t good at this, at leaning on people. He’d always been the one to joke things off, to keep things light. That’s who he was to them. The funny one. The guy who kept the mood up. Not the guy who showed up on their doorstep half-broken, asking for somewhere to crash because he didn’t know what else to do.

But the ache in his ribs and the bone-deep exhaustion won out over the fear. His legs felt like lead as he forced himself out of the car and toward the door. Every step felt heavier, every second longer than the one before, and by the time he reached the door, his hand trembled as he raised it to knock.

Just knock. Just do it.

He tapped on the door once, weakly, and almost turned to leave when it swung open far faster than he’d expected. Courtney stood there, her eyes widening the moment she saw him. There was no hiding how bad he looked—he could feel the tension in his face, the pallor of his skin, the way his body sagged like it was about to collapse under its own weight.

“Trevor?” she breathed, immediately stepping aside to let him in. “Oh my God, come in. What happened?”

He swallowed, unable to meet her eyes. His voice felt thick and raw when he spoke. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

There it was. The vulnerability laid bare in those simple words, more than he’d wanted to admit. He could see Courtney’s face soften, not with pity but with understanding, something far warmer and less suffocating than what he feared. She didn’t need more details to get it.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. It was an invitation, not an obligation. She wasn’t taking pity on him—she was offering him something he didn’t even know he needed until that moment.

He stepped inside, still feeling hesitant, his movements slow and deliberate like his body might give out at any second. The warm light of their apartment washed over him, and the scent of something faintly familiar—probably whatever they’d been cooking—filled the air. It was homier than anything he could imagine going back to.

Shayne appeared from the kitchen, his expression shifting instantly from casual to concerned the moment he saw Trevor. “What the hell, dude?” His voice wasn’t sharp, though. It was laced with a kind of brotherly care Trevor hadn’t realized he’d needed so badly. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus. Sit down.”

“I’m fine, I just…” Trevor’s voice trailed off as he lowered himself gingerly onto the couch. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close to fine, but saying it out loud felt impossible.

Shayne grabbed a water bottle and tossed it toward him before sitting down on the armrest of the couch, watching him carefully. “What happened?”

Trevor didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of water, feeling the cool liquid soothe his parched throat. The exhaustion was starting to settle in heavier now, making it hard to form words. His side throbbed, a reminder of the pain he’d been ignoring for hours.

Trevor stared at the water bottle in his hand, his fingers idly tracing the condensation gathering on the outside. He wanted to explain, but the words were lodged somewhere deep in his throat. He could feel Shayne’s eyes on him, patient but expectant. Courtney was sitting beside him, close enough to offer comfort without crowding him, waiting for him to speak when he was ready.

But how could he explain how stupid he had been? How reckless?

“It was after the shoot,” Trevor began, his voice low, barely more than a rasp. He cleared his throat and winced as the motion sent a sharp twinge of pain through his side. He had been trying to push through it, but sitting down made it harder to ignore. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate the injury, but there wasn’t one.

Shayne’s brows furrowed. “After the shoot? What happened?”

Trevor exhaled slowly, the memories of the last few hours crashing over him. “There was this stunt. I didn’t think it would go wrong, you know? It’s always dumb little stuff with me, and it never ends badly. I mean, usually.” He tried to chuckle, but it came out flat, like his body didn’t have the energy for even that. “But I misjudged this one. Big time.”

Courtney leaned in slightly, concern written all over her face. “How bad was it?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t let anyone see just how bad it was. Not at the shoot, not even when he dragged himself to the hospital afterward. They had asked him a dozen times what had happened, and he gave the same vague answers. He hadn’t been ready to admit the full scope of his mistake.

“I fell—hard.” He shifted again, instinctively reaching for his side, where the pain had dulled slightly thanks to the meds. But it still throbbed, a deep ache that reminded him of just how reckless he had been. “Hit the ground wrong. It was like my whole body just folded up, and I couldn’t stop it. By the time I realized what happened, I’d slammed into a table edge, caught it right in the ribs.”

Courtney’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, Trev.”

Trevor shook his head quickly, trying to play it down. “It wasn’t that bad at first. I thought I could just walk it off. I didn’t even go to the hospital right away.” He winced at his own words, the stupidity of it weighing on him. “But after a few hours, I could barely breathe, so I ended up there anyway.”

Shayne let out a long sigh, his frustration tempered by concern. “Dude, you should’ve called us.”

Trevor swallowed. He could feel the sting of shame creeping up his neck. He should’ve called someone—anyone—but he hadn’t. “I didn’t want to bother you guys,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I thought I could handle it on my own. It’s just… I didn’t expect it to get this bad.”

Shayne shook his head, his tone more gentle now. “Trevor, it’s not bothering us. You’re our friend. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Courtney nodded, her hand resting lightly on Trevor’s shoulder. “We’re here for you, okay? Whatever you need.”

Trevor’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t from the pain this time. It was the weight of their kindness, the unwavering support he hadn’t realized he’d needed so badly until now. He had spent so long pretending to be okay, forcing a smile through every ache and exhaustion, that he had forgotten what it felt like to let people in.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” Trevor whispered, the vulnerability in his voice almost painful to admit. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Courtney’s expression softened even further, and she squeezed his shoulder gently. “You’re never a burden, Trevor. You’re always welcome here, no matter what.”

Shayne leaned forward, his voice steady but firm. “Next time, call us. Even if it’s just something small. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Trevor nodded, his throat tight as emotion welled up inside him. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear those words, how much the weight of pretending everything was fine had been crushing him.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said, his voice cracking slightly. “I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t want you guys to worry.”

Courtney gave him a soft, understanding smile. “We worry because we care. That’s never going to change.”

Trevor looked down, blinking rapidly to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t used to this—being vulnerable, being taken care of. But in this moment, with Shayne and Courtney by his side, offering him a safe place to land, he realized it was okay to not be okay sometimes.

He let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For the first time in what felt like days, the tightness in his chest loosened.

“Thanks,” he muttered, feeling a little more at peace. “I really needed this.”

“You’ve got it,” Shayne said, clapping him lightly on the back before standing up. “Come on, let’s get you some real food. I’m sure whatever they gave you at the hospital sucked.”

Trevor let out a weak laugh, nodding. “Yeah, it was pretty terrible.”

Courtney smiled, standing up as well. “You can stay here as long as you need. We’ve got your back.”

Chapter Text

Trevor sat in the breakroom, his shoulders hunched as if he could fold into himself, disappear into the dull hum of the refrigerator and the distant echo of voices filtering through the walls. The usual buzz of Smosh’s energy felt muted to him, like a soundtrack playing on someone else’s stereo, and he wasn’t sure where he fit into it anymore. He stared blankly at the coffee cup in front of him, tracing the rim with his fingertip, lost in the whirlwind of thoughts he couldn't seem to untangle.

Personal setbacks. That’s what he’d been calling them, but they felt like more than that—like a slow unraveling of everything that made sense about who he was. Failed projects, the weight of expectations, and the nagging feeling that maybe he wasn’t enough, that maybe he never had been. It was all catching up to him, and now he was sitting here, hollowed out by the constant pressure to be the version of himself everyone expected.

He almost didn’t notice Tommy enter until the door clicked shut behind him. Tommy moved with a kind of casual confidence, a quiet understanding in his eyes as he grabbed a chair and slid it next to Trevor, sitting down without a word. He didn’t force eye contact or push for conversation, just waited, his presence solid and grounding. There was something about Tommy that always seemed to anchor everyone around him, a sense that no matter what, he wasn’t going to let you drift too far away.

After a long silence, Tommy finally spoke, his voice soft but deliberate. “You’ve been different lately. What’s going on?”

Trevor sighed, his chest tightening at the question. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to admit how lost he felt. But the words were stuck there, burning at the back of his throat. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, not meeting Tommy’s gaze. “I just... I don’t feel like myself. It’s like I’m... failing at being me, you know?”

Tommy tilted his head, watching him closely. “What do you mean by that?”

Trevor swallowed hard, his hands restless in his lap. “I don’t know who I am outside of this place,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the door, toward the world of Smosh that felt both so familiar and so foreign to him now. “It’s like I’ve tied everything to this job, to this role I’m supposed to play. But lately, I feel like I can’t even do that right. And if I’m not that guy, the one everyone expects me to be, then who the hell am I?”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his jaw, hating how vulnerable it sounded. Tommy leaned forward, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened with quiet understanding.

“I think we all go through that, man,” Tommy said gently. “It’s easy to get caught up in it—this job, the pressure to be ‘on’ all the time. But that’s not all you are. Smosh is just one part of you, and it’s not the most important part.”

Trevor bit his lip, fighting back the frustration bubbling up inside him. “It feels like it is,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like if I can’t do this, then what else is there? I’ve had so many setbacks lately, and it’s just… It’s like I’m watching everything slip away, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Tommy’s gaze softened further, and he leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to let Trevor’s words hang in the air between them. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, steady. “You’re not slipping away, Trevor. You’re just going through something. And setbacks... they don’t define you. You’re allowed to question things, to struggle. It doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself.”

Trevor shook his head, his frustration mingling with the sharp sting of doubt. “But what if I have? I’ve been trying so hard to live up to this version of myself—this guy who’s always funny, always upbeat, who can take whatever gets thrown at him with a smile. But that’s not me. Not anymore.”

Tommy studied him, the concern deepening in his eyes. “You don’t have to be that guy all the time, you know. No one’s asking you to be perfect, and you’re not letting anyone down by admitting that you’re struggling. The person you are off-camera—that’s just as important. Probably more important.”

Trevor’s chest tightened, the knot in his stomach twisting painfully. He wanted to believe that, but it felt impossible. “I don’t even know who that person is anymore.”

Tommy’s expression softened further, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. “I think you do. You’ve just forgotten, or maybe you’ve been too hard on yourself to see it.”

He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “Trevor, you’re more than just the guy people see on camera. You’re kind. You make people feel at ease. You care so much about everyone around you—more than you realize. And you’ve got this creativity that’s so damn unique. It’s okay to question things, to not have all the answers. But you can’t let one part of your life define your whole identity.”

Trevor sat there, his throat tight, struggling to process what Tommy was saying. Part of him wanted to push back, to say that it wasn’t enough, that he still felt lost in the shadows of his own expectations. But another part of him—deeper, quieter—was starting to listen. He didn’t need to have it all figured out right now. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe it was okay to just... exist, to be human, messy and uncertain.

“I don’t know if I can just switch that off,” Trevor admitted, his voice quieter now, more raw. “I’ve been trying so hard to keep it all together, and it feels like the harder I try, the more I lose myself.”

Tommy nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. “I get it. But you don’t have to do it alone. You’ve got people around you who care about you—who see you for who you really are, not just the guy on screen. Let them in. Let yourself be Trevor, not the role you think you have to play.”

Trevor’s eyes stung, emotion welling up inside him, but for the first time in what felt like ages, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like a release, like maybe he didn’t have to carry all of this weight by himself. Maybe he could just... be, and that would be enough.

Chapter Text

Trevor winced as he took another step, the pain sharp and searing through his leg, but he forced himself to keep walking, hoping no one would notice. He tried to brush it off like it was nothing, that it wasn't as bad as it felt. Just a scrape. He could walk it off, right? That’s what he told himself, even as the warmth of blood soaked through his jeans and left a crimson trail behind him.

He glanced around the Smosh set, making sure no one was watching, and continued moving toward the back exit. His limp grew more pronounced, but he refused to stop, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. He hated being a burden, especially on days like this, when everyone was already running around, stressed, trying to make sure everything was perfect for the shoot. The last thing he needed was to slow them down.

But his luck ran out when Amanda stepped into the hallway. She froze for a second, her eyes locking onto the dark spots staining the floor behind him.

"Trevor?" she called, her voice laced with concern. She hurried over, her brow furrowing as she followed the trail of blood up to where his hand hovered over his leg, pressing against the wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. "Oh my god, you're bleeding!"

He gave her a weak, sheepish smile. "It’s fine, I’m good. Just a little cut."

Amanda wasn’t having it. She crouched down, gently but firmly pushing his hand aside to inspect the injury. Her face paled when she saw the deep gash, blood seeping through his makeshift attempt to stop it. "This is not just a little cut, Trevor! You need medical attention, now."

Trevor tried to laugh it off, but the pain caught in his throat. "Come on, it's not that bad. Really, I’ll be fine. Just give me a second to—"

"No," Amanda cut him off, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You're not walking this off. We’re getting you help."

She wrapped an arm around his waist, steadying him as she pulled out her phone to call for assistance. Trevor sighed, his head dropping in defeat as he leaned into her support, his usual humor slipping away under the weight of pain and exhaustion.

"Thanks," he mumbled quietly, his voice softer now, realizing he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore.

"Don’t thank me yet," Amanda replied, tightening her grip as they waited, her eyes darting anxiously between him and the growing bloodstain on his jeans. "Let’s just get you patched up first."

Chapter Text

It had been a long day—too long. Trevor could feel the weight of it pressing down on him as he stood by the kitchen counter, his hands gripping the edge a little too tightly. His chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the room. He told himself to breathe, to just push through it like he always did, but the walls seemed to be closing in, and his thoughts were spiraling too fast to catch.

He hadn’t said a word to anyone about what he was feeling. It wasn’t like him to open up, to burden people with his mess. Everyone had their own problems; why would he pile his onto them? So he shoved it down like always, kept up the jokes, the easy smile, the zany energy he was known for. But now, standing here alone in the kitchen, everything felt like it was unraveling.

Trevor didn't hear Shayne come in until he was right behind him. He flinched at the sound of footsteps, hastily wiping at his eyes, hoping the moisture wasn’t obvious. But Shayne was too observant for that.

“Hey, Trev,” Shayne’s voice was soft, no teasing or edge to it. Just concern. “You okay?”

Trevor swallowed hard, forcing a laugh that came out shaky. "Yeah, just… tired, you know? It’s been a long day."

But his voice cracked at the end, betraying the fragile wall he’d built around himself. Shayne stepped closer, his hand resting gently on Trevor’s shoulder, grounding him in a way that words couldn’t.

"You don’t have to do that," Shayne said quietly. "You don’t have to pretend."

Trevor shook his head, trying to push it down again, trying to hold onto that last bit of control, but it slipped through his fingers like sand. Before he could stop himself, a sob broke free, and then another, the dam inside him shattering as the flood of emotions rushed out.

Shayne didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just pulled Trevor into his arms, holding him tight as the tears came in waves. Trevor buried his face in Shayne’s shoulder, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him afloat in the storm.

For what felt like hours, Trevor let it all out—the stress, the frustration, the fear, the guilt. Everything he’d been bottling up for so long. Shayne just sat with him, not saying a word, not trying to fix it. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough, the steady rhythm of his breathing a quiet reminder that Trevor wasn’t alone.

Eventually, the sobs began to fade, replaced by quiet, shaky breaths. Trevor pulled back slightly, his face flushed and his eyes red, but there was a lightness in his chest now that hadn’t been there before.

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady.

Shayne gave him a small, understanding smile. "Anytime, man. You don’t have to carry this stuff by yourself."

Trevor nodded, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes, grateful beyond words. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve someone like Shayne in his corner, but in that moment, he was just thankful he wasn’t facing it all alone.

Chapter Text

The shoot had been pure chaos. Props were flying, people were shouting lines, and the usual on-set madness was in full swing. In the middle of it all, Shayne was sprinting across the set, trying to hit his mark for the next shot. He didn’t see Trevor coming from the other direction until it was too late.

It happened in a blur—a sharp collision, the sound of something crashing to the floor, and Trevor letting out a small grunt of pain as he hit the ground, clutching his arm. Shayne froze, his heart dropping into his stomach as he realized what had just happened.

"Oh my god, Trev!" Shayne rushed over, panic already setting in. "I’m so sorry, man. Are you okay?"

Trevor winced but quickly plastered on a grin, trying to wave him off like it was nothing. "I’m fine, I’m fine! Just took a little tumble." He shifted, trying to sit up, but the strain was clear in his face. His arm throbbed where it had hit the floor, but he didn’t want to make a scene.

Shayne wasn’t buying it. "Dude, no—you're hurt," he insisted, his voice tight with guilt as he knelt beside Trevor. He gently reached out, his hand hovering over Trevor's injured arm as if afraid to make it worse. "I shouldn’t have run like that. I didn’t even see you."

Trevor chuckled through the pain, waving his good hand dismissively. "It’s not your fault. Just bad timing, really. You know how it gets during these shoots—chaos everywhere."

But Shayne wasn’t letting it go. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the swelling forming on Trevor’s arm, and he shook his head. "No way. We’re getting you checked out. I don’t care if you think it’s ‘bad luck’ or whatever, you need to see someone."

Trevor tried to laugh again, but it was a little weaker this time. "Shayne, seriously, it’s not a big deal—"

"It is to me," Shayne cut him off, his voice firm but gentle. The guilt was etched all over his face, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility gnawing at him. "I’m not gonna just stand here and let you brush this off. You’re hurt because of me, and I’m getting you help, no arguments."

Trevor sighed, realizing Shayne wasn’t going to back down. "Alright, alright," he relented with a soft smile. "You win. Let’s go get it checked out."

Shayne nodded, relief flooding his expression, though the guilt lingered just beneath the surface. He helped Trevor to his feet, careful not to jostle his injured arm. "I’m really sorry, man," he murmured again, his voice softer now.

Trevor gave him a reassuring pat on the back with his uninjured hand. "Don’t beat yourself up, Shayne. It was an accident. Just one of those weird Smosh shoot moments, right?"

Shayne managed a small smile at that, though the worry in his eyes didn’t fade. "Yeah, I guess so," he said, still watching Trevor like he was ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of pain.

As they made their way off set, Trevor couldn’t help but feel touched by Shayne’s concern. No matter how chaotic things got, Shayne always had his back—even if it meant being a little overprotective.

Chapter Text

The shoot was running behind schedule, and Trevor could feel the pressure to keep things moving. He’d taken a rough fall earlier—a bad stumble during one of the stunts—but with the adrenaline still pumping, he shrugged it off, wrapping the gash on his side with whatever he could find in the back. A quick job, nothing fancy, just enough to stop the bleeding long enough to finish the day. He figured it wasn’t that serious. Besides, everyone was stressed, and he didn’t want to slow things down.

As he walked back to set, the pain had dulled to a manageable throb, and for the most part, Trevor convinced himself he could push through it. He’d done worse during shoots before. No big deal.

But during a short break, as he absentmindedly grabbed a water bottle, Arasha spotted it. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Trevor from across the room, noticing the way he kept one hand near his side, pressing just a bit too tightly. Then her gaze dropped to the fabric peeking out from under his shirt, the faint but unmistakable red stain creeping through.

Her heart skipped a beat. "Trevor…" she started, her voice steady but tinged with concern as she walked over to him.

Trevor looked up, flashing her his usual grin, trying to play it cool. "What’s up?"

Arasha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, her eyes locked onto the blood soaking through the makeshift bandages he’d wrapped around himself. She motioned toward it, a frown forming. "What is that?"

Trevor glanced down, finally noticing the bloodstain spreading faster than he’d realized. His face paled slightly, but he forced a laugh, trying to brush it off. "Oh... uh, that’s not good."

"Not good?" Arasha’s eyes widened, and she stepped closer, her voice suddenly sharper. "Trevor, this is more than ‘not good.’ What happened? And why are you still walking around like nothing’s wrong?"

Trevor winced as he shifted slightly, feeling the pain flare up again. He let out a shaky breath, but still tried to keep his tone light. "I just took a little fall. Wrapped it up. I figured it would hold until we finish filming. We’re almost done, right?"

Arasha shook her head, her expression a mix of exasperation and concern. "You’re bleeding through your bandages. This isn’t something you can just walk off, Trev. You need to get this looked at—now."

Trevor opened his mouth to argue, to insist that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but the pain was starting to gnaw at him, making it harder to deny. His head dipped for a second, and he sighed. "I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Everyone’s already on edge. I didn’t want to slow things down."

Arasha softened a little, her tone gentler now. "You’re not slowing things down. You’re hurt. No one’s going to be mad if you take a break to take care of yourself."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward a chair as she called out for someone to get medical supplies. Trevor slumped into the seat, finally letting himself relax for a moment. His usual humor slipped away, replaced by exhaustion.

"Okay, okay… You win," he muttered with a half-smile. "But seriously, next time I’ll at least pick better bandages."

Arasha gave him a small, reassuring smile, shaking her head. "Next time, just tell someone before you try to hide it."

Trevor chuckled weakly, grateful for her steady presence. As the crew hurried to get him proper help, he leaned back, letting go of the stubbornness that had kept him moving and allowing himself, for once, to be taken care of.

Chapter Text

The set buzzed with frenetic energy, the kind of barely-controlled chaos that seemed to hum in the very air. People moved like clockwork, every gear in the machine whirring and clanking along at breakneck speed—except for Trevor. He stood off to the side, arms folded tight across his chest as if holding himself together, watching the crew rush past in a blur of movement and shouting. His throat felt tight, like there was a lump lodged there that no amount of swallowing could ease. He’d tried to step in, tried to help, but each time, his voice was drowned out by the shuffle of feet or the crackling of walkie-talkies.

He wasn’t sure when the feeling had crept up on him, this creeping sense of irrelevance. Maybe it had been the third time someone brushed past him without so much as a glance, or maybe it had been the way everyone seemed so preoccupied with their own responsibilities, so laser-focused on what they were doing that Trevor might as well have been a piece of furniture. The sting of it nestled deep in his chest, like a thorn that wouldn’t dislodge no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

Trevor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, forcing a tight smile anytime someone happened to look in his direction, though the smile never reached his eyes. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, fingers tapping out nervous rhythms against the fabric as he stared at the floor, not wanting to see the blur of people too busy to notice him. There was a growing frustration bubbling beneath the surface—hot, prickly, and suffocating—and with it, a dull ache of something much worse: isolation.

The rest of the team was moving forward, locked into the rhythm of the day, and he was just…there. Unneeded. Unseen.

Across the room, Josh caught sight of Trevor. At first, it was just in passing, the way he caught glimpses of everyone in the flurry of production, but then he noticed the way Trevor stood, stiff and withdrawn, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the background. Josh’s heart tugged in a way it only did when he knew something wasn’t right, and he weaved through the moving bodies with quiet determination.

When he reached Trevor, he didn’t immediately speak. Instead, he gently placed a hand on his arm, guiding him out of the bustling set and toward a quieter corner of the studio, away from the flashing lights and clattering equipment.

“Hey, man,” Josh said softly, his voice cutting through the hum of noise without demanding. “You okay?”

Trevor forced a chuckle that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh, busy day.”

But Josh wasn’t convinced. He’d known Trevor long enough to read him like a book, and the tightness around his mouth, the flicker of hurt in his eyes, told him everything he needed to know.

“Trevor,” Josh said, his voice firm but kind, “you don’t have to pretend with me. What’s going on?”

Trevor hesitated, biting his lip and staring at the ground as if it held the answers. There was a long pause before he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… feel like no one notices me. Like I’m here, but I’m not really here, you know? Everyone’s doing their own thing, and I’m just in the way.”

Josh’s brow furrowed, and a flash of sympathy crossed his face. He’d seen this before—the way Trevor sometimes slipped into the background, too quiet, too self-conscious to push through the noise. But to see him feeling this small, this invisible… it hit harder than Josh expected.

“Hey,” Josh said, his tone softening, but still carrying weight. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so it was just between the two of them. “Look at me.”

Trevor glanced up reluctantly, his eyes meeting Josh’s for the first time, and what Josh saw there made his chest tighten—a mix of hurt, frustration, and that deep-seated uncertainty that made Trevor question his place in the world.

“You’re not in the way,” Josh continued, his voice steady and warm. “You’re never in the way. And you’re definitely not invisible. I know it can feel like that, especially on days like this when everything’s so crazy, but you’re a huge part of this team. What you do matters, Trevor. More than you probably realize.”

Trevor swallowed hard, trying to blink back the sting of emotion rising in his throat. The words hit him with more force than he expected, like someone had thrown him a lifeline just when he thought he was about to drift too far out to sea. His shoulders slumped, the tension slowly leaking out of them as he let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know,” Trevor muttered, shaking his head. “Sometimes… it just feels like no one notices until I mess something up, you know? Like I’m only here to fill space.”

Josh’s expression softened even further, and without hesitation, he pulled Trevor into a quick, firm hug—a brief but solid reminder that he was there, grounded, real.

“Trust me,” Josh murmured as he stepped back, locking eyes with Trevor again. “You don’t just fill space. You’re one of the reasons this place works. And if you ever feel like that again, if you ever feel like you’re being pushed aside or forgotten, you come find me, okay? Because I promise you, you’re not alone in this. Not now, not ever.”

Trevor stared at him, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, and nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to take the edge off that hollow ache in his chest, enough to make him feel seen.

“Thanks,” he whispered, his voice barely steady. “I… really needed that.”

Josh smiled, giving him one last pat on the shoulder before glancing back toward the set. “Anytime, man. Now, come on. We’ve still got work to do, and I think they could use your help over there.”

Chapter Text

Trevor wiped the sweat from his forehead as he squinted at the control panel. His hand hovered over the buttons, his mind racing to keep up with the machine's flashing lights and shifting gears. The complex piece of equipment hummed loudly, but something felt off. A low grinding noise cut through the usual rhythm, making Trevor’s stomach drop.

Before Trevor could react, a thunderous crash shattered the air, echoing off the metal walls of the workshop. His heart leapt into his throat as a heavy component from the machinery broke loose, the sound of metal twisting and tearing filling the space. Time slowed as he registered the object plummeting toward him, its shadow looming larger in his peripheral vision.

Instinctively, he jerked back, but it was too late. The cold, unyielding metal slammed into his arm with a sickening thud, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. Trevor gasped, a sharp intake of breath that felt like it was caught in his throat, pain exploding through his arm like a wildfire. It radiated outward, surging through his chest and making his heart race in a frantic rhythm.

He doubled over, clutching his arm, struggling to keep himself upright as the world spun around him. Bright, harsh lights overhead seemed to blur, the metallic tang of fear mixing with the faint smell of oil and grease that filled the air. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he felt a warm rush creeping down his side, pooling in the fabric of his shirt. It clung to his skin, sticky and wet, a sensation he couldn’t quite process in the chaos.

“Trevor!” Courtney’s voice rang out, sharp and clear, cutting through the fog of pain.

He barely registered her approach as she sprinted to his side, her face pale, eyes wide with alarm. Her breath came fast, and he could see her chest rising and falling as she quickly assessed the situation. Her gaze darted from his strained expression to the gaping cut now visible through the ragged tear in his sleeve, blood seeping through the fabric in crimson rivulets.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Trevor muttered, his voice weak and strained, desperate to downplay the reality of the injury. He tried to shake off the sting, but every movement sent fresh waves of pain lancing through his arm. The room still spun around him, a dizzying whirl of colors and shapes, while his heart raced uncontrollably. He forced a strained smile, the effort of it pulling at his face, hoping it would ease the worry etched across Courtney’s features.

“Trevor, you’re not fine!” she exclaimed, urgency rising in her tone. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly, not wanting to hurt him further yet desperate to help. “You’re bleeding! Look at your arm!”

As he shifted, a fresh wave of pain shot through him, and the grin faltered, slipping away. Despite his instinct to brush off her concern, the panic in her voice pierced through the haze of adrenaline. He felt her warm hand grip his shoulder, steadying him as his legs threatened to give way.

“It’s just a scratch,” Trevor winced, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words came out strained, the effort twisting his features. A wave of nausea rolled through him, threatening to drag him under as he fought to keep his focus. His voice sounded weaker than he intended, each syllable steeped in pain, and he caught the flicker of panic flash across Courtney’s face like lightning.

“Stop. Just stop,” she snapped, her tone cutting through his muddled thoughts. She grabbed his good arm, her grip firm and unyielding, anchoring him against the pull of the dizziness threatening to sweep him off his feet. “Don’t be stubborn. You need help.”

He swallowed hard, the motion feeling like it scraped against the back of his throat. Each pulse of pain radiating from his injured arm seemed to synchronize with the frantic beating of his heart, sharper and more insistent with every passing second. The embarrassment of being fussed over burned in his cheeks, and he gritted his teeth, trying to summon a semblance of bravado. “Really, I’m—”

Courtney cut him off, her tone gentler but still laced with firmness. “You’re not okay. Let me help you.” Her eyes, wide and searching, held his gaze, urging him to see the truth he was trying to ignore.

Trevor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the fight leaving his body like air from a punctured balloon. Deep down, he knew she was right; the throbbing ache in his arm was too intense to dismiss. But the ingrained urge to act tough, to convince himself and everyone around him that he was invulnerable, tugged at him, making it hard to surrender. Finally, he let out a shaky breath, a reluctant nod escaping his lips.

Courtney’s expression softened, and she offered him a tight smile, her hand still resting on his good arm, providing a lifeline amid the chaos. “We’re getting you patched up, whether you like it or not,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm against the sharp edges of his anxiety.

Before he could voice another protest, she gently tugged him toward the nearest seat, her movements quick yet careful, as if she were guiding him through a minefield. The world around them came into sharper focus, the edges of reality solidifying as he settled into the chair, his legs trembling slightly beneath him. His arm throbbed, and he instinctively cradled it against his chest, feeling the damp fabric of his shirt stick to the wound, each pulse sending sharp, electric jolts through his body. The throbbing was relentless, a reminder that he was human, that he was fragile.

The ache settled deep in his bones, a gnawing sensation that made his stomach churn. With every heartbeat, he felt a dizzying mix of vulnerability and anger. How could he have let this happen? The self-reproach loomed large in his mind, whispering harshly that he should have been more careful, more aware. Trevor had always prided himself on his ability to handle pressure, to tackle any challenge that came his way. Now, lying in the aftermath of his own carelessness, he felt stripped of that confidence.

His breath came in short, jagged bursts, each inhalation laced with the metallic tang of blood and fear. It was suffocating, tightening around his chest like a vice. He fought against the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him. What if it was worse than he thought? What if he couldn’t use his arm again?

Trevor glanced at Courtney, who was already rummaging through a nearby first-aid kit, her movements swift and efficient. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for her presence, yet it was laced with embarrassment. He hated that she had to see him like this—weak, scared, vulnerable. As she approached, her hands steady as she prepared to examine his injury, Trevor couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy. 

The sharp sting of reality was almost worse than the injury itself—the knowledge that he was now at the mercy of someone else, someone who had to step in and care for him.

“I’m going to take a look at it,” Courtney said gently, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the whirlwind in his mind. She knelt beside him, her eyes steady, exuding a calmness that he desperately wanted to absorb. “Just try to relax, okay?”

Relax. The word felt foreign, impossible in that moment. Trevor forced himself to take a deep breath, but it came out shaky, uneven. “Yeah, okay,” he replied, trying to sound more composed than he felt.

As she carefully peeled back the edge of his shirt, he braced himself for the sight of the injury. The moment her fingers grazed his skin, he flinched, a wave of agony radiating through him. The blood had congealed slightly, and he could see the jagged cut where the metal had bitten into him, raw and angry. The pain intensified, a burning sensation that clawed at his nerves and made his vision waver.

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the world, trying to block out the pain. It was like being trapped in a vise, the pressure building and building until he thought he might burst. But there was also an undercurrent of fear that twisted in his stomach—a fear of what it meant to be injured, to be vulnerable. He hated it.

“What happened?” Courtney asked, her voice low and steady, pulling him back to the moment.

Trevor opened his eyes, forcing himself to focus on her instead of the throbbing in his arm. “Just...a freak accident,” he replied, though the words felt inadequate. “I should’ve been more careful.”

She met his gaze, her expression unwavering. “Accidents happen, Trevor. You’re not at fault. Just focus on breathing.” He nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. As she cleaned the wound, the stinging sensation mixed with the sharp pain in his arm, and Trevor felt the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away.

As Courtney meticulously cleaned the wound, Trevor focused on her movements, watching her hands work with practiced ease. The antiseptic stung as it made contact with the raw edges of his injury, and he fought against the instinct to pull away. He could feel the heat radiating from his arm, a deep ache that seemed to resonate through his entire body, but he concentrated on Courtney's calming presence instead.

“There we go,” she said softly, her voice a steady anchor. “I just need to put on a bandage, and then you’ll be okay.”

He nodded, trying to channel all his energy into steadying his breath. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, though doubt still gnawed at the edges of his mind. He wasn’t convinced he’d be okay—what if this was a sign of something worse? But as he looked at her, the focus and determination in her expression pushed back against his spiraling thoughts.

“You’re doing great,” she encouraged, noticing the way his face contorted with discomfort. “Just a little longer. You’re almost through this.”

The sincerity in her voice soothed some of his rising panic, and he allowed himself to lean back slightly in the chair, his head brushing against the cool surface behind him. It was almost a relief to surrender, to let someone else take control for a moment. Yet beneath that relief lurked a feeling he couldn’t shake—embarrassment, the ache of inadequacy wrapping around him like a cold fog. He was supposed to be capable, dependable. Now he felt like a burden.

As she wrapped the bandage around his arm, her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin around the wound, and he flinched involuntarily. “Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyes darting to his face, concern written all over it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, it’s fine,” he replied, forcing a small smile despite the sting. “It’s just… sensitive, I guess.”

The truth was that it was more than sensitivity; it was a cascade of emotions. The pain radiating from his arm was a constant reminder of how fragile he was, how easily things could go wrong. He felt exposed, stripped of his usual bravado, and the thought of being vulnerable in front of Courtney made his stomach twist with unease.

“Listen, I know this feels rough right now,” Courtney said gently, her voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts. “But you’re going to heal. And I’m here for you.”

He caught her gaze, those bright, earnest eyes grounding him in the moment. For the first time since the accident, he let out a shaky breath, allowing the weight of the situation to settle into something more manageable. “Thanks, Courtney,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Just take it easy for the rest of the day, alright?” she instructed, her tone lightening slightly. “No more heavy lifting. We need you in one piece for tomorrow’s project.”

Trevor chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign to him. “Yeah, sure. I’ll take it easy. Just as soon as I get the chance to actually breathe without feeling like I’m about to pass out.”

“Exactly. Just breathe,” she echoed, giving his good arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be back to your usual self before you know it.”

Trevor began to feel the pulse of heat mingling with the pain in his arm. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the pain subside slowly.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Courtney watching him, a soft smile on her lips. “See? You’re already looking better. More like yourself.”

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, trying to tease through the discomfort. “I thought I looked pretty rugged and tough.”

Courtney laughed lightly, the sound brightening the dim room. “Rugged is one way to put it. But I think I prefer the Trevor who doesn’t look like he just survived a machine-related disaster.”

Trevor chuckled, the humor easing some of the tension in his chest. “Fair enough. I promise to avoid heavy machinery in the future.”

“Good plan.”

Chapter Text

The last thing Trevor remembered was the end of an exhausting day on set, pushing himself to finish a few final takes despite the nagging ache in his side. He’d been trying to brush it off as nothing, but one wrong move during a stunt—and an awkward landing on a prop table—had left him crumpled on the floor, blood seeping through his shirt. The team had acted fast, calling an ambulance to whisk him to the hospital for stitches, while Trevor, embarrassed and a little woozy, had waved off everyone’s concerns.

When he opened his eyes, the sharp smell of antiseptic hit him first. His head felt heavy, swimming with remnants of anesthesia as he blinked at the bright fluorescent lights overhead. It took a moment for his vision to adjust, but soon he made out a familiar face next to his bed—Anthony, arms crossed and tapping at his phone with the intensity of someone who’d been there a while.

“Sleeping Beauty’s back,” Anthony greeted, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Took you long enough.”

Trevor's lips twitched, his voice scratchy as he mumbled, “Guess I didn’t end up on the morgue table, then.”

Anthony grinned back at him, though his eyes still held a dull tiredness. “Tried to tell the doctors you were gone for good, but they weren’t having it.”

Trevor attempted a chuckle, but it only made his side throb in protest. “Ow,” he groaned, wincing. “Really fell hard, huh?”

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. “Next time, maybe try to aim for anything that isn’t sharp metal.”  He leaned in, taking a quick scan of the IV and the fresh white bandage peeking out from under Trevor’s hospital gown. “Doc says you’re all stitched up. And I’m under strict orders to make sure you stay put. You had me and the crew worried sick for a minute there.”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Trevor mumbled, though a small part of him found comfort in Anthony's presence. His friend was the last person he expected to see waiting in a sterile hospital room, trading the usual swagger and attitude for quiet patience. There was something reassuring in the way he sat there, legs crossed and arms draped over the chair’s arms like he’d settle in for as long as Trevor needed.

“Actually, I do,” Anthony replied, a hint of his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble, and they practically wrote my name on your release papers. I’m not taking any chances with you sneaking out of here the second my back’s turned.”

Trevor huffed a laugh, but the sound was soft, muted by fatigue. He could feel the pull of exhaustion weighing down his eyelids, and yet he couldn’t stop watching Anthony as he fussed with the hospital blanket. Anthony’s hands, normally in constant motion, were steady, smoothing out wrinkles with careful precision, the action almost meditative. His fingers lingered just a bit, straightening a corner with unnecessary attentiveness, as though the blanket might offer Trevor more comfort than it really could.

A warmth settled in Trevor’s chest, gentle but persistent, tugging at his groggy mind. He let his eyes close for a moment, letting the quiet moments of Anthony’s presence wrap around him, a steady anchor in the midst of his muddled thoughts.

But the peace didn’t last long; a gentle nudge against his shoulder had him blinking awake again, and when his eyes found Anthony’s, he saw a rare softness there, barely veiled by the familiar sarcasm.

“Did you… wait here the whole time?” Trevor asked, his voice slipping out soft and hesitant, his eyelids already threatening to droop again.

Anthony’s eyes darted to the floor for a brief second, as if considering how much to admit. “Uh, yeah. Figured you’d be the type to sleep through a tsunami if someone wasn’t around to drag you up.” He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn’t quite mask the tension in his shoulders. “Besides, I thought you’d want someone here when you woke up, in case you decided to faint or something dramatic like that.”

Trevor’s lips tugged into a tired grin. “Very funny,” he murmured, though the sincerity beneath the joke caught him off guard. His body was worn out, every limb heavy from the lingering effects of anesthesia, but Anthony’s presence seemed to fill the empty room, making it feel warmer and less clinical.

Anthony looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, don’t get all mushy on me,” he muttered, though his voice had softened, the edges gentler than usual. He reached over to adjust the blanket once more. Trevor allowed his eyes to be pulled shut- just for a moment, though. 

When Trevor woke up again, the room was dimmer, the harsh fluorescent lights softened by the early evening glow filtering in from a small window. For a moment, he thought he was alone, the empty silence pressing in until a gentle snore broke through. He turned his head slowly, careful not to jostle his sore side, and saw Anthony slouched in the chair, his head tilted back, arms folded across his chest, breathing evenly in sleep.

He hadn’t expected Anthony to stay this long. It felt strange but comforting, a reminder that despite the teasing, despite the usual banter and bravado, Anthony cared in a way he rarely let on. Not wanting to disturb him, Trevor lay back and watched as shadows danced along the walls, the muffled sounds of hospital life drifting in from the hallway. But his mind wouldn’t rest. Memories of their recent shoot, the ridiculous jokes, the laughter, and even the accident itself played back in his head.

A few minutes later, Anthony stirred, blinking as he adjusted to the dim light. His gaze fell on Trevor, and he sat up, stretching as he blinked away sleep. “Thought you’d never wake up,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with one hand, clearly embarrassed to have been caught napping.

“You were drooling, you know,” Trevor teased, fighting a grin.

“Liar,” Anthony shot back, but there was a faint pink tinge creeping up his cheeks. He sat up straighter, glancing at Trevor with his usual air of nonchalance. “So, are you finally feeling up for that grand escape plan, or do I need to get you a wheelchair and make a scene?”

Trevor laughed, wincing slightly as his stitches pulled. “I’ll save the dramatics for next time. I think I’m good with getting out of here quietly.” But his gaze softened as he looked at Anthony, the lingering weight of gratitude hovering between them, unspoken.

Anthony noticed, his usual bravado faltering for a second. “Look, you really don’t need to get all sentimental on me, okay? I didn’t want to have to listen to the whole crew freak out about you sneaking out and getting hurt again,” he said, brushing off the gratitude with a wave of his hand. But there was a glint in his eyes, a quick flash of something unguarded that told Trevor everything he needed to know.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Trevor said quietly, sincerity lacing his voice. “I mean it, Anthony. I would’ve hated waking up here alone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony replied, reaching for his jacket. “Just don’t make a habit of it, okay? I’m not a fan of hospital food, and I’d like to keep my nights free of this whole ‘caretaker’ thing.”

With a chuckle, Trevor shifted, letting Anthony help him sit up and ease his feet to the floor. They moved slowly, cautiously, but even then, he could feel Anthony’s steadying hand at his back, guiding him to stand.

Trevor couldn’t say he’d ever had his boss walk him out of the hospital before, but as Anthony gently guided him to the elevator, he couldn’t say that he minded too much.

Chapter Text

Trevor was cold to his very core, an aching chill that cut deep into his bones, making him feel brittle. Fragile. Whatever storms brewed in the dark depths of his mind made the already cold nights feel frigid, and the days feel numb and swabbed in cotton, wandering through the days with false direction until he found clarity; a task, a job, something, anything . Compelling him, a pull in his chest, a whisk in his hand, an eight o’clock call time, and a sense of desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt. If he hadn’t felt so disconnected, he would have felt overwhelmed.

He would have told someone if he hadn’t been so scared. If he hadn’t seen the look in his eyes when he looked in the mirror; defeated before he’d even begun. He didn’t want to be weak. He lay in bed, trying to find warmth. His head ached, and it felt magnified by at least ten, now the cotton had fallen out through his ears. He could hear everything in his head, every thought, every emotion. He wasn’t used to it anymore. He’d run on autopilot for so long he didn’t know if he knew how to do it. He didn’t know if he could be Trevor again.

A flash of pain, a shadowy figure screaming, deafening, fear, and then defeat. 

He was planning to get out of bed and try and act like everything was okay, but he couldn’t. There was a lack of air in his lungs, and an ache in his stomach that felt like he was being ripped apart. He felt… purposeless . Like there was nothing for him to do anymore, except wallow in self-pity.

He felt a feeling akin to shame creeping up his throat, forming a lump and aching. Ashamed that he kept acting as if everything was normal, cheery and optimistic. Those feelings, those emotions, were nowhere to be found in the sea of emotions that washed around in his brain. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be kind.

He was supposed to be kind.

Trevor sat up and pulled himself out of bed. He wobbled to the kitchen, a strange weakness in his legs that he couldn’t shake. His neck screamed in pain, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. His body felt like it was burning, and then that sensation washed away as if water had been poured over him. He gasped, dropping to the cold tiles of the floor, desperately trying to force himself to breathe. A gripping sense of betrayal coursed through him, rushing to his head and making him feel lightheaded. He pressed his forehead to the cool tiles, breathing deeply as he waited for it to pass.

It did pass, eventually. Trevor couldn’t find the appetite to eat, so he skipped breakfast entirely. His body felt tired, more so than usual, and he felt hot and sweaty. He sighed again, shivers shooting up his spine. He needed to sit down for a minute. Just a minute, to recover his strength, and then he’d get on with what he had to do today. His legs practically gave way as he sank into the couch, looking out the window up at the sky, bigger than anything he could ever be, and he felt small.

He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be happy. 

A sudden and unrelenting surge of anxiety gripped him as if an invisible force had tightened its hold around his chest. Panic took over, rendering his limbs weak and shaky. His breaths came in short gasps, each inhalation feeling insufficient, leaving him desperate for more air. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his palms turned clammy. The world around him blurred as if reality itself had become distorted, and his head seemed to fill with cotton again. Not again. He couldn’t feel this way again. Slowly, he felt the tearing sensation in his chest reside and dull to a throbbing ache. Heisheart hurt now, so full of emotion it might burst. But he couldn’t let that stop him. 

As he trudged into the kitchen at Mythical Kitchen, he could feel the weight of sleep deprivation pulling him down, making each movement feel sluggish and heavy. The familiar sounds of pots clanging and laughter ringing through the air felt distant, like a world he was not quite a part of. He forced himself to focus, determined to push through the day. 

But today was different. Trevor felt as if he were moving through thick molasses, each action weighed down by the fatigue that clung to him like a second skin. His hands trembled slightly as he sliced through the vegetables, the knife slipping just a bit more than it should, its edge gliding through the flesh of a tomato with a squishy, sluggish resistance. The vibrant red juice pooled beneath it, but all trevor could focus on was the dullness settling in his bones.

He paused, the world around him blurring at the edges. He could feel the rhythm of his heart beating loudly in his ears. Trevor tried to steady his breathing, but the air felt thick and uncooperative, as if it were reluctant to fill his lungs. With each shallow inhale, he fought against a creeping wave of dizziness that threatened to pull him under, making everything around him feel like it was swaying.

The memories of last night slipped into his mind uninvited—shadows lurking just outside the edges of his awareness. They taunted him, swirling like a storm, and he felt himself sway on his feet, grappling for balance. He shook his head slightly, willing the darkness away, but the grip of anxiety tightened around him, its cold fingers clutching at his throat. The familiar sounds of the kitchen, the rhythm of bustling chefs and bubbling pots, became distorted, like a dream where everything felt just out of reach.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, its hands ticking forward slowly, almost mocking him with their measured pace. He wanted to move, to catch up with the day, but his body felt anchored to the spot, sluggish and unresponsive. The knife trembled in his grip, and for a moment, he considered dropping it entirely. Instead, he gritted his teeth and pressed on, forcing himself to finish the cut. Trevor leaned against the counter for support, his forehead slick with perspiration, the heat of the kitchen pressing down on him like a weighted blanket. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Just then, the pot on the stove let out a soft sputter, breaking through his thoughts. The sudden sound startled him, snapping him back to the moment, and he blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the fog that had settled over his mind. But the anxiety lingered, curling like smoke in his chest, heavy and unyielding.

“Hey, Trevor! You okay?” Josh's voice cut through the haze, concern lacing his tone. Trevor looked up, forcing a smile that felt brittle on his lips.

“Yeah, just a little tired,” he managed, but the words were a thin veneer over a deeper truth, one he was too weary to confront.

Josh and Nicole exchanged a glance, their expressions betraying their worry, but Trevor turned back to the vegetables, willing himself to focus on the task at hand. He could feel the tension in the air.

“C’mon, man. You’ve been off today. What’s going on?” Josh pressed, stepping closer, his eyes searching Trevor’s for answers.

Trevor opened his mouth to respond, but before he could find the words, the world around him spun just a fraction too fast. Panic flared in his chest, squeezing tighter. He felt his pulse quicken, the shadows from last night creeping back into his vision, distorting the edges of reality. He took a breath—too shallow and quick—his heart racing as he struggled against the rising tide of anxiety that threatened to pull him under.

“Trevor!” Nicole's voice pierced through the thick fog, sharper and more insistent this time. “Watch the sauce! It’s burning!”

The urgency in her tone jolted him back to the present, and he whipped around to see the sauce bubbling angrily, a darkened film forming on the surface. His mind scrambled to catch up, but it was too late. The pot slipped from his fingers, crashing to the floor.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he stammered, embarrassment flooding him like ice water, making his cheeks burn.

Josh stepped forward, breaking the tension. “Trevor, take a breath, okay? It’s just a sauce.”

He could feel his throat tightening, the words caught in a constriction that felt both familiar and unwelcome. “I’m fine. I just... I’m just tired, that’s all,” he insisted, but even to his own ears, it sounded hollow and unconvincing, like a poorly played note in a symphony. Josh sighed, a deep, exasperated breath that seemed to carry the weight of concern, rubbing a hand across his forehead as if trying to wipe away the frustration of seeing his friend in distress.

“See, you telling me you’re fine when I didn’t even ask tells me that you are definitely not fine,” Josh replied, his voice steady but laced with warmth

“It’s okay not to be okay. We’re here for you,” Nicole said gently, stepping closer, her presence radiating a kind of comfort that wrapped around Trevor like a soft, familiar blanket. Her eyes shone with empathy, reflecting a sincerity that made the lump in his throat swell, emotions roiling just beneath the surface like a storm about to break.

Trevor looked down, the countertop suddenly fascinating

“I’ve been having nightmares,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “They keep me up. I can’t... I can’t shake them off.”

Josh’s expression shifted from concern to understanding. “What kind of nightmares?” he asked, his tone gentle, as if he were treading carefully through Trevor’s vulnerable state.

“It’s just... everything,” Trevor breathed, a shiver running through him. “It’s like I’m back in those dark places, and I can’t escape. People I care about are there, but they’re distorted, and I can’t reach them. I wake up feeling like I failed... like I’m not enough.”

Nicole stepped in closer, her presence warm and steady. “You are enough, Trevor. You’re so much more than what those nightmares make you feel. It’s not real. It can’t touch who you really are.”

Trevor nodded, a tear escaping the corner of his eye, and Josh reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ve all been there, man. It’s tough. But you’re not alone in this. We’re a team. We’ve got your back.”

Trevor nodded, head still heavy. They may have been a team, but he still couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that there wasn’t much they could do for him. That there wasn’t much to be done but hope the nightmares would stop again.

He closed his eyes, body aching for a relief that didn’t seem to be coming.

Chapter Text

As the hours dragged on and the bright studio lights cast their heat over the set, Trevor could feel something unraveling inside him, the usual thrill of performance slipping away piece by piece. Each scene demanded a new burst of energy, a fresh crackle of wit, but the laughter was becoming harder to summon, forced, somehow brittle. His voice felt worn, the edges roughened as if scraped by the strain of too many words, too many takes, too many moments trying to be bigger than his exhaustion. He ignored it, pushing himself to be louder, funnier, more of everything they expected him to be.

The laughs around him came slower, his voice barely catching air in his chest as it whittled down to nothing but a hoarse echo. Each word came thinner, raspier, more painful to force out, until he could feel himself losing control over even this—this small part of himself he’d always taken for granted. And with each line, each shout, each attempt to summon up that usual spark, the draining ache deepened. It felt like part of him was slipping away, sinking into silence.

Then came the final take. The crew gathered, expectant, as Trevor summoned the last of his energy. He could feel the familiar blend of nerves and anticipation, the expectation to make them laugh, to give them the perfect ending they were waiting for. He opened his mouth, his lips forming the words that should’ve come as naturally as breathing, but all that emerged was a feeble, fractured whisper.

It was like he was losing the last vestige of his own voice, the thing that held him together, held up the walls he’d built against this feeling that had been pressing closer, but that he’d ignored all the same. The edges of the panic that had lurked in the background surged forward, filling the gap where his voice should have been. It was more than a physical frustration; it felt like he’d lost the power to hold onto himself, to express even the smallest piece of who he was.

So much of him was bound up in his voice, in the easy jokes and chatter that kept everyone laughing, kept himself distracted from the parts he couldn’t quite face. Without that, there was just silence, a frightening empty space that stretched wider as he tried to push the words out, nothing but the barely-there rasp to show for it.

Around him, the crew shifted, waiting, and he forced a thumbs-up, a tight smile that probably looked as strained as it felt. The panic was rising, an uncomfortable weight pressing harder and harder against his chest, like a reminder that without his voice, he had nothing left to offer, nothing to say that could mask the cracks he’d spent so long ignoring. Swallowing against the raw ache in his throat, he tried to shrug it off with a laugh, but the sound came out like a broken wheeze.

Josh was by his side in an instant, closing the distance between them with a calm steadiness that belied the rush of activity on set. The usual easy grin had softened into something gentler, his eyes narrowing with a quiet, searching concern. It was a look Trevor knew all too well—the one that saw past his usual bravado, the forced jokes and laughter, and instead recognized the weariness he tried to mask. Josh’s hand found his shoulder, grounding him with a warm, steady pressure that eased some of the weight Trevor hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying.

“Hey,” Josh murmured, voice low, a comforting hum beneath the static that buzzed in Trevor’s head. “You’re good. Just breathe.” His eyes flickered over Trevor’s face, scanning for something Trevor couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

Trevor’s first instinct was to wave it off, maybe toss in a quick thumbs-up or flash a reassuring smile, to go along with whatever nonchalant shrug he could muster. But his chest felt tight, his muscles tense as if bound by invisible cords pulling tighter with every shallow breath. Anxiety coiled in his stomach, sharp and relentless, pushing him further from the calm facade he’d hoped to hold onto. He could feel his vulnerability raw, exposed in a way he couldn’t mask, and for once, he had no voice to hide behind.

He looked away, avoiding the softness in Josh’s gaze, the kind of understanding that was always harder to face than his own discomfort. Without a quick quip or laugh to throw out as a shield, his silence spoke volumes, a thin line of panic that he couldn’t quite stifle.

Josh’s voice cut through it gently. “Let’s take a breather, yeah?” He didn’t wait for Trevor’s response, just guided him to the worn couch on the edge of the set, his hand still a reassuring anchor on Trevor’s shoulder. Trevor’s body moved almost instinctively, his legs heavy as he sank onto the couch, the comfort of familiar fabric beneath him oddly grounding. Josh didn’t ask questions or push for explanations. Instead, he simply sat close, watching Trevor with a patience that somehow managed to ease the tightness in his chest. There were no expectations in his silence, just an open willingness to be there, to hold that space without filling it with platitudes or empty words. 

Trevor took a breath, gesturing with his hands in a way that Josh seemed to understand immediately. “Yeah, you don’t have to explain, Trev. We all need a minute sometimes.” Josh’s voice was low, reassuring. “Just sit here. Breathe. I’ll stay as long as you need.”

And as the noise of the set softened around them, Trevor felt his shoulders begin to unclench, the tightness in his chest loosening as Josh stayed by his side, a quiet, steady presence he hadn’t thought to ask for but found himself deeply grateful to have.

Chapter Text

Trevor hadn’t known it was possible to feel this much while doing something so ordinary. Chopping carrots, he focused on the rhythm, the sound of the knife meeting the board, letting it pull him under in a way that almost, almost felt like relief. But even here, surrounded by the comforting clatter and vibrant chaos of Mythical Kitchen, where he’d always felt at ease, something was slipping. The steady ground beneath him seemed to tip and sway, his emotions a constant, disorienting sea of highs and lows that came without warning, leaving him nauseated in a way that had nothing to do with anything physical. This was a sickness that crept up from somewhere deeper, coiling tight inside his chest and spreading until he felt himself drifting, unmoored and struggling to stay steady.

The days blurred together, each one a flurry of energy and laughter, the banter and hustle that usually fueled him feeling increasingly out of reach. Every laugh he forced felt thin, hollow, the grin he wore just a flimsy shield that didn’t hide the rawness creeping in. Everyone else seemed to be moving at a different speed, caught up in the excitement, but Trevor was sinking beneath it, his anxiety growing with each moment he tried to keep up.

In the quiet hours when the crew had gone home, he pushed himself harder, working until exhaustion washed over him, the ache of tired muscles providing a grounding sensation, however brief. It was easier to stay late, to lose himself in the mindless tasks that kept him moving. He’d scrub counters until his hands were raw, grip the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white, pushing himself to stay in motion, to keep the feelings at bay. There were nights he’d close his eyes and press his fingers to his temples, the dull throb of a stress headache familiar, even comforting, as he ignored the gnawing emptiness in his stomach and the fatigue pulling at his eyelids. Eating seemed pointless, and sleep…well, sleep brought no escape, only more time for his mind to wander into darker corners.

One evening, he found himself leaning too close to the edge, testing the line between distraction and pain. The knife he held felt heavy in his grip as he chopped with an intensity that bordered on reckless, each motion sharper, harder, until the soft skin at the base of his finger caught beneath the blade. It was a shallow cut, just enough to sting, but the momentary jolt of pain cleared his head in a way that nothing else had managed in weeks. He didn’t want to admit how much he needed that—how much he needed something that would silence the turmoil, even if only for a second. But he cleaned the wound quickly, muttering excuses to himself about clumsiness, about needing to be more careful.

And then there was the strain of hiding it all. Every day, he carried the weight of his own growing isolation, feeling the cracks widen as he pretended that everything was fine. If he could laugh hard enough, smile long enough, maybe it would drown out the panic rising in his chest. But he could feel the exhaustion settling deeper, pulling at the edges of his mask until it didn’t fit quite right. He’d look at himself in the mirror sometimes, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowness that seemed to creep into his smile when he wasn’t paying attention, and wonder how much longer he could hold it all together.

Josh was the first to notice, though Trevor tried to keep it hidden. He’d catch Josh’s gaze lingering on him just a beat too long, concern etched into his expression, a question in his eyes that Trevor couldn’t bring himself to answer. And when Josh would ask, “You doing okay?” with that familiar warmth and care, Trevor would shrug it off, brush him away with an easy, “Yeah, just tired.” But the words felt like lies in his mouth, brittle and thin.

One night, after everyone else had left, Josh found him in the kitchen, staring blankly at the sink, his hands red from where he’d scrubbed too hard. He didn’t look up when Josh stepped in, the gentle thud of his shoes stopping just behind him.

“Long day, huh?” Josh’s voice was light, but there was something serious in his gaze, a quiet concern that Trevor had come to associate with the moments when he could least afford it. The kind of look that said Josh could see right through him, all the defenses he’d carefully constructed to keep everyone at arm’s length.

“Yeah,” Trevor muttered, forcing a laugh as he continued to scrub, ignoring the way the soap began to sting. “Just…a lot going on.” It was vague, a brush-off he hoped would be enough to keep Josh from probing further. But he could feel the intensity of Josh’s gaze, the way he waited just a beat longer, giving Trevor a chance to continue.

“Is it though?” Josh asked, his voice gentle but steady. “Or is something else going on?”

Trevor felt his chest tighten, a flicker of panic as he avoided Josh’s eyes, reaching for another bowl just to keep his hands busy. “I’m fine, man,” he said, his voice too quick, too defensive. “Just…you know, a lot of work lately.”

But even as he said it, the words felt hollow, and he could sense Josh wasn’t buying it. He felt a surge of frustration, the emotional nausea churning inside him. He wanted to brush it off, to walk away before the conversation dug too deep.

“Trevor,” Josh said softly, the single word filled with a weight Trevor wasn’t ready to face. He could feel the tears pressing at the corners of his eyes, the ache in his chest breaking through his carefully constructed defenses. But he kept his gaze fixed on the sink, his jaw tight, as though if he just didn’t look at Josh, he wouldn’t have to admit how close to breaking he felt.

Josh’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him in a way that was almost painful, the warmth and care radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to do this alone,” Josh murmured, his voice steady, kind, like a lifeline. But Trevor didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to show how much he was struggling. The thought of opening up, of exposing the rawness he’d buried so deep, was almost too much to bear.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke, barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to…how to stop feeling like this.”

Josh reached out, his hand resting on Trevor’s shoulder, firm but not forceful, grounding him in the moment. “You know you don’t have to pretend,” he said softly, his gaze unwavering. “Not with us. Not with me. I’m here, Trev. Always will be.”

The words cut through Trevor’s defenses, piercing the layers he’d built around himself. He could feel his breath hitch, the tightness in his chest threatening to spill over, a rush of emotions he couldn’t control. He wanted to say something, to explain the constant unease, the exhaustion, the feeling that he was spiraling without a way to stop. But the words wouldn’t come, tangled in his throat like an anchor weighing him down.

Josh stayed silent, giving him the space he needed, his hand still on Trevor’s shoulder as a reminder that he wasn’t alone. The kindness in his eyes was both comforting and terrifying, the kind of understanding Trevor wasn’t sure he knew how to accept. 

And so he didn’t. 

Scrubbing until he bled cleaned the dishes in the sink. 

Why couldn’t it clean him too?

He just had to keep scrubbing away, until he burned redraw. Until he was clean, and the sickness in his stomach faded away.

Chapter Text

Trevor felt himself unraveling. His days were blurred and his nights were somehow worse. They bled into the early hours, his mind whirring with thoughts he couldn’t quiet, until he found himself leaning into unhealthy habits just to numb the exhaustion pressing down on him. Some nights, he’d stay up until dawn, scrolling through messages he didn’t answer, counting the hours of sleep slipping away. On others, he’d collapse in bed without eating, his body too tired to feel hunger. His reflection in the bathroom mirror grew stranger by the day—eyes shadowed, skin pale, the spark that once lived there dulled beneath a mask of fatigue.

The physical strain began showing in small, painful reminders. Headaches throbbed at his temples, his hands shook when he held his phone too long, and a persistent ache took root in his chest. Even then, he thought he could push through it, burying every pang of exhaustion beneath forced smiles and jokes that tasted bitter on his tongue. Until one day, he caught Shayne’s gaze from across the room, that familiar warmth in his eyes replaced by a quiet worry that Trevor wasn’t ready to face.

Shayne didn’t say anything at first. He lingered at the edge of the set, his eyes tracking Trevor’s every movement, his silence a presence that Trevor could feel pressing into his already strained nerves. Trevor tried to brush it off, slipping into his usual banter, hoping to keep Shayne at bay, but Shayne’s hand landed on his shoulder, steady and grounding, the concern on his face impossible to ignore.

“Trevor,” Shayne said softly, his voice cutting through the noise Trevor had been drowning himself in. “When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep? Or… actually ate something?”

Trevor looked down, feigning a casual shrug. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but even he could hear the hollowness in his voice, the way the words didn’t quite ring true. “Just a busy week, you know? I’ll catch up on sleep later.”

But Shayne didn’t budge. His hand stayed firm on Trevor’s shoulder, his expression softening in a way that made Trevor’s defenses falter. “Trevor, pushing yourself this hard isn’t sustainable. You’re running on fumes, and it’s okay to step back. No one’s expecting you to break yourself for this.”

The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit. A lump formed in his throat, his chest tightening with emotions he’d tried so hard to suppress. “I don’t want to let anyone down,” he managed, his voice strained.

“You’re not letting anyone down,” Shayne replied, his tone unwavering. “We’re all in this together, and that includes looking out for each other. You’re allowed to take care of yourself.”

Trevor wanted to believe it, wanted to trust that it was okay to rest, to let someone else carry the weight he’d shouldered for so long. But the habits of denial were hard to shake. Shayne’s kindness made the cracks widen, exposing the rawness beneath, and Trevor found himself unable to look away from the concern in Shayne’s eyes.

With a sigh, Shayne gently guided Trevor to a quiet corner of the set, pulling up a chair and gesturing for him to sit. The weight in his chest shifted, the tension unwinding ever so slightly as he sank into the seat. Shayne sat across from him, his presence steady and grounding, his gaze soft yet resolute.

“You’re important to us, Trevor. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this,” Shayne said, a quiet plea woven into his words. “This place wouldn’t be the same without you—so let us help you. Take the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

Trevor’s defenses finally crumbled, his voice cracking as he whispered, “I don’t even know how to start.” He looked away, shame pressing heavy in his chest. “I’m supposed to be the one who’s fine, who can handle it…”

“Handling it doesn’t mean breaking yourself to pieces,” Shayne replied gently, reaching over to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to do this alone. None of us want you to.” He’d had to rush quickly to another shoot after that, leaving Trevor standing in the corridor like a statue worn down by time.

Later that night, after everyone had left and the studio was wrapped in a hushed, after-hours quiet, Trevor found himself standing in front of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked at his own eyes, tired and worn, and for the first time, he let himself see the person everyone else had been so worried about. The person who had tried so hard to keep going that he hadn’t realized he was chipping away at his own foundation.

A person he didn’t recognise anymore.

Chapter Text

Trevor had stayed late, the studio quiet and hollow around him. The others had all left hours ago, lights flicking off as he pushed through each task. His eyes felt gritty, his body heavy with the kind of weariness that crept in when he’d long since passed his limits. But he was determined to finish this final batch. After a day of filming, they'd pushed him to try one more recipe for a future video—something exciting and a little complex that he knew would have a chance to go viral. So, he told himself he could manage it, even with his muscles aching and his head starting to cloud.

The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air as he finally set the loaf down on the counter, wiping flour-streaked hands on his apron. Trevor turned, aiming for the sink to wash up. But his foot caught on a spill he hadn’t noticed—a rogue patch of olive oil gleaming under the dim lights—and his body went weightless, then heavy all at once. His arms flailed, fingers grazing the cold countertop as he lost his footing, the room blurring around him. Pots clanged loudly as he hit the ground, a searing pain ripping through his side and his forearm smacking against the metal edge of the stove.

He could barely register the pain, only that it was fierce and consuming. Then, slowly, everything faded to black.

When Trevor finally woke, he was surrounded by pale, sterile walls, the hum of hospital machinery filling the air. His arm was bound tightly against his chest, held in a sling that kept him from moving much, and a thick bandage pressed into his side, as if holding his cracked ribs in place. A dull, throbbing ache settled into his bones, surfacing every time he tried to adjust his position.

Before he could truly process it, the door swung open, and Nicole entered quietly, her eyes soft as she took him in. Relief flashed across her face the moment she saw he was awake, and she immediately walked over to his bed, giving him a small, reassuring smile—one he knew she saved for times when things felt bad, but not insurmountable.

“Hey, Trev,” she said gently, reaching out to brush his hair away from his forehead. “Glad to see you’re back with us. You had us all a little worried.”

"Yeah, well," he whispered, swallowing hard, "I’m a real danger to myself." He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat, his chest too tight. A dull ache pulsed from his ribs, reminding him just how fragile he felt in this bed, under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Everyone’s probably mad, huh?”

Nicole shook her head, scooting the chair beside his bed. "Not mad. Just worried. And … relieved you’re okay.” She glanced down at his arm, bound tightly in a sling, and let out a sigh. “That looks like it's going to hurt for a while.”

He nodded, a fresh wave of dread sinking into his stomach. The accident had left his arm bruised and swollen, immobilized in a cast, and every slight movement tugged at the stitches in his side. His hands shook as he reached out, grasping the scratchy hospital blanket. He swallowed again, but the words he wanted to say lodged in his throat, heavy and bitter.

“Nicole,” he began quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What if … what if I can’t do this anymore?”

She looked at him, her face softening as she placed a steady hand over his. “What do you mean?”

“Cooking.” His voice trembled. “I mean … what if this never heals right? What if I can’t keep up, can’t hold my own in the kitchen? It’s all I’m good at. It’s all I have.” He blinked quickly, feeling the sting in his eyes as he fought back tears. “The guys count on me. I don’t want to let them down.”

Nicole watched him carefully, her hand still wrapped around his as if her warmth could somehow reach through his skin, down into the depths of his pain. She wasn’t going anywhere, and somehow, that made the vulnerability pressing at his chest feel both easier and harder to bear.

“Trev, listen,” she said softly, her thumb running gently over his knuckles. “You’re allowed to feel everything that’s hitting you right now. Scared, frustrated, angry—whatever it is. You’re not alone in this. And no one, especially the people who love you, see you as just… what you do. We see you as someone who lights up a room, who puts so much heart into everything he does. That’s not going anywhere, okay?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze, the pressure of shame and frustration twisting painfully in his chest. How could she just say things like that, things that didn’t match the way he felt? Broken. That was the only word that felt true right now. It was as if the accident had forced all his fears into the open, as if the cracks that he’d tried so hard to keep hidden had all burst wide open. What good was he now, lying here unable to even sit up without wincing?

“I don’t…” His words stumbled, his voice low and strangled. “I don’t want to be… this weak,” he forced out, a sharp bitterness threading through his tone. “I don’t want to need help just to make it through a day. I feel like I can’t even breathe without… without someone holding me up.”

Her face softened, a quiet determination gleaming in her eyes as she held his hand tighter. “You’ve always been there for everyone else, Trev. Every time one of us has needed it, you’ve been there. Now, it’s your turn. Leaning on us doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human. We’re all broken sometimes. And if you need to lean on someone right now, then lean. It’s not weakness.”

The words sunk into him slowly, like the burn of alcohol cleaning a wound. Her conviction felt steadying, a reminder he hadn’t known he needed. But still, the reality was hard to swallow, and it clashed painfully against everything he feared about himself. His eyes dropped to his hand in hers, searching for some kind of answer he didn’t know how to ask for. He thought of everything he’d worked for—every dish, every late night, every moment he’d thrown his whole self into—and the horror of it slipping through his fingers made his chest constrict.

“Will they… will they even still need me when I’m like this?” he asked quietly, the words trembling as he finally met her gaze, his eyes glassy with the tears he’d been holding back.

Nicole shook her head, reaching up to brush a thumb gently over his cheek. “It’s never been about needing you just for what you do, Trev. It’s you. You are enough, just as you are. And that’s not something that’s gonna disappear because you’re hurt or because you need a hand. We’re here because we care about you, whether you’re at your best or not.”

He let the words sink in, and with them, the first inkling of warmth reached his chest, easing the ache there, just a little. He let himself imagine it—really imagine it—that maybe he didn’t have to be on top of everything all the time, that maybe he could fall apart a bit and still be okay. Nicole’s gaze didn’t waver, her steady presence like a lifeline in the midst of his brokenness. She made it feel possible to believe, even if just for a moment, that he could find his way back from this.

A shuddering sigh escaped him, and the tears he’d fought so hard to hold back finally slipped free, spilling silently down his cheeks. He gave her hand a weak, grateful squeeze, his voice rough as he whispered, “Thanks, Nicole. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She leaned in, wrapping her arms around him gently, mindful of his injuries, her voice warm against his ear as she said, “You don’t have to know. That’s what I’m here for.”

He felt himself break open then, his tears soaking into her shoulder, but it was a kind of breaking that didn’t feel as raw or hopeless as before. In her arms, he let himself feel everything he’d been trying to hold back—grief, anger, and that desperate ache for reassurance that maybe, just maybe, he was worth more than what he could do. 

When Trevor finally stepped back into his apartment, it was strange how familiar everything felt, yet how foreign. The rooms looked the same, the clutter on his kitchen counter untouched from that last night he’d spent here, the blanket still bunched up on his couch. But now, it all felt distant, as though he’d left part of himself behind in that hospital bed, or maybe even in that dark, cold moment of falling.

He lowered himself carefully onto the couch, his body rigid with pain, and his heart just as unsteady. The silence of his apartment weighed on him. His arm was still held tightly in the sling, and every movement reminded him of how his ribs still hadn’t fully healed. He glanced around, trying to settle himself into the comfort of home, but it was hard. All he could feel was the tightening knot of worry coiled in his chest, a constant reminder of everything that had happened—and of everything he was afraid he couldn’t be anymore.

Getting back to work was supposed to be a bright spot, a relief. But when the day finally came, and he walked back into the Mythical Kitchen, that comfort he’d hoped for vanished. The place that had always felt like his second home now loomed around him, the clatter of pans and hiss of stoves sending a spike of nerves through him instead of the excitement he’d always felt. He’d imagined coming back here with his usual smile, brushing off any lingering pain with jokes and his usual playfulness. Instead, each step felt like moving through mud.

Josh greeted him with a warm, if cautious, smile. "Good to have you back, man," he said, clapping him on the shoulder with gentle restraint.

Trevor forced a grin, the muscles in his face stiff. "Feels… good to be back," he replied, but even he could hear the tremor in his voice.

Every movement felt painfully slow, and every task reminded him of what he couldn’t do yet. Adjusting his grip on a knife, the simplest motions filled him with dread, his hands trembling just enough to make him wonder if he was imagining it or if it was really there. He could feel the eyes of the others, sympathetic but watchful, as though waiting to see if he would stumble. And when he reached to adjust a spice jar, a sharp stab of pain flared in his ribs, making him suck in a breath.

“Trevor, you okay?” Josh’s voice was gentle, but it stung.

“Yeah,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Just… got a little carried away. I’ll be fine.”

It was only halfway through the morning when he realized his body was already begging for a break. But the idea of resting, of giving in to the weakness, gnawed at him. He’d barely even done anything. I should be able to handle this, he thought, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. But he forced himself to continue, past every ache, every throb, even as his exhaustion set in and his concentration frayed at the edges.

By midday, he was clumsily working his way through the simplest tasks, his frustration mounting with every drop of spice that slipped from his fingers, every mistake he made. He could feel his hands shaking again, his breathing shallow and strained. Then, as he moved to clean the counter, his hand slipped, knocking over a bowl. It shattered, pieces scattering across the floor in a burst of noise that seemed to echo in his head.

Trevor froze, feeling every gaze in the room snap to him. His cheeks flushed hot as he dropped to one knee, reaching out to gather the pieces with a hand that was already starting to tremble.

“Hey, I’ll get it,” Nicole’s voice came from behind him. Her hand covered his, stopping him mid-reach. “It’s okay, Trevor.”

But it didn’t feel okay. Nothing did. His breath caught in his throat, shallow and sharp, as if it might fail him altogether. The frustration and shame that gripped him were raw, clawing up from somewhere deep and desperate. He felt exposed, almost like the injury had peeled him back layer by layer until only the most vulnerable pieces of him were left, laid bare under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

He hated this feeling—hated the way he felt helpless, like all the strength and skill he’d built over the years had crumbled overnight. The Mythical Kitchen had always been more than just a workplace; it was a place where he could bring every part of himself, his quirks and flaws, his love for the chaos and joy of food, and it was accepted. Here, he’d always felt enough, like he could be his truest, zaniest self and still be valuable, respected. Now, that confidence, that belonging—it all seemed to be slipping through his fingers like sand. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep it together, but the reality of it was suffocating.

Nicole knelt down beside him, carefully gathering the shards with steady hands, her calm a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him. She didn’t look at him with pity, didn’t ask if he was okay—she just moved with quiet purpose, filling the silence with her gentle presence. But the bitterness crept up anyway, unbidden. He should be able to do this; he should be fine by now. Instead, every inch of him felt brittle, like one wrong move could make him snap, just as easily as the glass now scattered across the floor.

The day crawled by in fragments, each task another reminder of his limitations. By the time he clocked out, his entire body ached, but it was the ache in his heart and pride that truly weighed him down. He barely made it through the front door of his apartment before exhaustion consumed him entirely. The familiar walls seemed colder, the quiet harsher, and as he dropped onto the couch, it felt like he was sinking into something far darker than the cushions beneath him.

His hand pressed hard against his eyes, as if somehow blocking out the world could keep the emotions at bay. But the tears came anyway, warm and unwelcome, tracing down his cheeks as he let the weight of it all crash over him. There was no one here to see the break in his resolve, no one to tell him it was okay, that he didn’t have to be perfect, or strong, or invincible. It was just him and the silence, amplifying every fear he had been trying to keep buried.

Nicole’s words circled through his mind, a soft echo in the quiet: It’s okay to be scared. We all lean on each other when we need to. She’d meant well, and maybe there was truth in her words, but right now, that reassurance felt thin, almost unreachable. He wanted to believe that needing help didn’t make him weak, that letting others carry him wasn’t a sign of failure. But how could he, when every inch of him felt broken beyond repair?

He thought of the kitchen, the clamor and laughter, the way it used to feel so effortless to slip into his role, to move with precision and confidence. That was gone now, replaced by something hollow, something that made him feel like a stranger in his own life. And that emptiness was terrifying. How long would it be before he found that feeling of home again—or if he even could?

With a shaky sigh, he lowered his hand, his gaze drifting around his apartment. Maybe Nicole was right; maybe he could rebuild, one slow day at a time. But he couldn’t shake the fear, the thought that he might never get back to the version of himself he used to know—the Trevor who could laugh off mistakes, who felt invincible with a spatula in his hand.

Broken people can get better, he thought, if they want to. But as he sat in the dim light of his living room, wrestling with the doubts that haunted him, he couldn’t help but wonder if wanting to get better was enough.

Chapter Text

The hours bled into each other, muted and grey in the cold sterility of the hospital room. Trevor lay unmoving, his body aching in ways that felt like they went far beyond the steady gnawing deep in his gut. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile white walls, but he barely noticed. His eyes traced the empty ceiling, each stark corner a reminder of his isolation, and he let the quiet settle in, hollow and biting, gnawing at whatever energy he had left. Somewhere between the pain and the silence, the truth sank in, colder than any hospital bed: he was utterly alone in a room filled with misplaced hope.

Josh hadn’t left his side all day. He’d come in without a word, pulling up a chair and taking a seat just inches away, his fingers loosely gripping the side of the bed in a quiet show of support. It was a small gesture, but it anchored Trevor in a way he hadn’t expected. Every now and then, Josh would murmur something kind, something hopeful—reminders of the world outside, little lifelines meant to pull him back to the surface. But Trevor found himself nodding along more for Josh’s sake than his own, each acknowledgment feeling like a hollow echo in the cavern of his despair.

The weight he carried—self-imposed and silent—felt too entrenched, too embedded, to be chipped away with just good intentions. He was drowning, submerged in a tide of guilt and fear that felt impossible to navigate. The physical pain was almost secondary to the ache in his chest, the hollow sense of failure that had been festering within him. He could feel it coiling around his heart, tightening with each shallow breath. Each word of encouragement from Josh felt like a gentle prod against a wound that had festered for too long, reminding him of everything he had lost, everything he feared he would never reclaim.

Trevor turned his head slightly, stealing a glance at Josh. He was slouched in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to contain the urgency pulsing within him. His brow was furrowed a sign of the worry he wore like a second skin. Trevor felt guilt coil in his stomach, knowing he was the cause of this worry.

But as he lay there, staring at the ceiling tiles, Trevor couldn’t shake the suffocating sense of futility. How could he even begin to hope for healing when every effort felt like running up a down escalator? The tears he refused to let fall burned at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the vulnerability that threatened to spill over.

“What if I can’t get better?” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It was a quiet admission, almost lost beneath the rhythmic beeping of the machines that surrounded him, but it felt monumental in its honesty.

Josh shifted in his chair, the concern in his eyes deepening. “You will,” he replied, his voice steady but tinged with an urgency that made Trevor’s chest tighten. “You just have to take it one day at a time. Just be real with yourself, Trevor. That’s the first step.”

But what did being real even mean? To Trevor, it felt like baring his soul in front of a firing squad. The idea of exposing himself, of allowing the raw edges of his pain to see the light of day, sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through him. How could he let Josh see the wreckage he had become? How could he be honest when he felt so fragmented?

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut as if the darkness behind his eyelids could somehow shield him from the truth. The very thought of facing his reality made him feel like he was spiralling down a rabbit hole with no bottom. Yet as he lay there, the burden of his shame heavy on his chest, he realized that continuing to hide wouldn’t bring him any peace; it would only deepen the chasm he was struggling to navigate.

“What if I told you I’m scared?” Trevor finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the admission. The words felt foreign, but they were the most honest he had been in days.

Josh’s expression softened, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a comforting hush. “Then I’d say that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared. You don’t have to pretend to be brave all the time.”

He forced a faint smile, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Thanks, Josh,” he managed, his voice scraping raw against the quiet. “I’ll… I’ll rest. Try to take it easy.”

Josh’s sigh was soft, relieved. His hand gave Trevor’s shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. “That’s all I ask, man.” He spoke with such steady confidence that, for a second, Trevor almost thought he could believe it.

But in the silence that followed, Trevor felt the exhaustion seep into his bones, settling like a weight he couldn’t shake. It was a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied, an emptiness that no amount of sleep could touch. Every promise he’d made—to rest, to get better—hung in the air, flimsy and hollow, like paper lanterns struggling against the wind. It felt wrong, twisted. This wasn’t something a few days off could fix. The pain, the constant feeling of not enough, was part of him—a shadow that had woven itself into his very being. He couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been there, feeding the gnawing ache in his chest and tying his worth to every skipped meal, every hour he forced himself to keep working.

Every moment he grasped onto control like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Trevor wanted to tell Josh, to let him see how deep the fear ran, how his need to be enough had tangled itself into his every thought like roots suffocating a tree. But he couldn’t. The words would only catch in his throat, bitter and wrong, tainted by shame. So instead, he let his silence be his shield, the weight of Josh’s hopeful smile the last thing he could cling to, a fragile thread in a storm that threatened to tear everything apart.

As Josh left, the hospital room felt emptier than before, the air around him pressing in with the unrelenting truth he could never admit. The stark white walls closed in, and the beeping machines seemed to mock him, a rhythmic reminder of the life he was meant to reclaim. He’d keep pretending. Keep letting people believe he was getting better, that he was taking care of himself. The mask he wore felt heavy, a tired echo of reassurance and resolve he didn’t have the strength to maintain. Each smile, each nod, felt like a stitch in the facade that was unravelling at the edges.

But what else could he do? Everyone was rooting for him, ready to believe he’d make it through. For their sake, he could pretend a little longer, even if every feigned laugh felt like it took a little more from him each time.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift, and for a split second, he allowed himself to imagine a version of himself who didn’t feel this way, who could sit down to a meal without second thoughts or a twinge of guilt, who could let go of the need to be perfect, to keep himself barely held together. 

But the thought slipped away, leaving him with the truth he couldn’t deny. That his identity had become a collage of anxieties and fears, each fragment echoing the relentless whispers that he was never enough. He felt like a shadow of who he once was—a vibrant spirit dulled to a husk of anxiety and dread. The Trevor who laughed easily, who found joy in cooking and shared meals with friends, was fading, replaced by a spectre haunted by self-doubt.

With each passing day, he felt that connection to his true self slip further away, like grains of sand running through an hourglass, each grain representing a moment of joy lost to guilt or shame. The reflection staring back at him in the mirror was a stranger, someone who had forgotten the warmth of community, the joy of connection, and the simplicity of being at peace with himself.

Trevor was forgetting how to be himself.