"Lying around? Does my bedroll look like open territory to you?" Evan snapped, eyes narrowed as he flipped through the pages of the journal to be sure that nothing was missing or that nothing extra had been written. Maybe an odd thing to be looking for, but to Evan, that journal was really the only thing he had left of Olivia other than the wedding ring that he wore on his ring finger and their combined art portfolio that he sentimentally (and possibly stupidly) kept in the bottom of his duffel bag. Defacing it, to him, was like defacing Olivia's memory, and to be frank, if anyone so much as tried doing that, they'd be carrying their teeth in a jar.
Evan arched an eyebrow and chuckled bitterly when the guy "complimented" his art. "Oh well thank you," he muttered sarcastically. "I'm glad you think my sketches are impressive, but I'll thank you even more to keep your grubby hands off of them from here on out," he spoke, a little more clearly this time.
But then… there he went, snatching the journal right back up and Evan's eyes narrowed again as he reached back for the book. He froze when the man started speaking of Olivia, and his hands, which had formerly been reaching for the book to try and tear it back from the man's hands, balled into fists. "Shut your mouth right now," he started, voice low and very foreboding, laced with his French accent which strengthened in his anger. "If you so much as breathe another word about her I will punch you so hard that you will be spitting teeth for a month you filthy American fils de pute."