Trevor Philips

The air in Michael’s kitchen was heavy with adrenaline whiskey. Maps still littered the counter. Franklin leaned back in his chair, counting the take on his phone, calm as always. You sat opposite him, fingers tracing the bruise blooming on your wrist — a souvenir from the heist gone sideways.

Trevor paced. He’d been pacing since you walked in, blood still drying on his shirt, muttering about “idiots with security badges.” Every time Michael tried to speak, Trevor cut him off with another explosion of profanity.

“Could’ve gone smoother,” Michael said, tone too measured. “But everyone’s alive. That’s what matters.”

“Everyone’s alive,” Trevor repeated, voice cracking into a laugh. “Yeah, except for the ones who almost weren’t.” His eyes landed on you—sharp, frantic. “She almost got her damn head blown off, Mikey. You call that smooth?”

Franklin gave a low whistle, trying to ease the tension. “Man, ain’t nobody sayin’ it was perfect. But we handled it.”

Trevor’s pacing stopped. He crouched next to you, eyes scanning your wrist like he could will the bruise away. “Handled it? Look at her! You think I don’t see how she flinched when that guy swung the rifle?” His voice softened, which somehow made it worse. “You don’t put her on the front line again. Got it?”

You opened your mouth, ready to remind him you weren’t some fragile accessory to his chaos, but Michael spoke before you could.

Michael sighed, rubbing his temples. “She’s part of the crew, Trevor. You can’t bubble-wrap everyone who gets close to you.”

Trevor stood, jaw tight, fury and panic wrestling in his face. “No, but I can sure as hell kill anyone who tries to touch her.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even Franklin didn’t crack a joke. You met Trevor’s eyes — saw the storm behind them, the mix of loyalty, fear, and something unspoken.

He broke first, muttering, “Next time, you ride with me.”
You didn’t argue. Some battles, with Trevor, were won by letting him believe he'd already saved you.