Raymond
The hospital lights are too bright, too white—like they're trying to scrub me clean of everything that happened.
I blink against them anyway. Machines hum steadily at my side, a low, constant rhythm that almost feels like breathing. Not mine. Borrowed. Monitored. Earned.
Cynthia sits beside me, close enough that her knee brushes the edge of the bed. Her hand is wrapped around mine, fingers tight, anchoring—as if letting go might erase me entirely. She hasn't moved since I opened my eyes. I know that without looking.
"You're awake," she says softly.
Her voice trembles, caught somewhere between relief and fear, and it hits harder than the pain blooming through my chest. I manage a weak nod. Even that feels expensive.
My body aches in layers—muscle, bone, nerve—but it isn't the poison that weighs me down.
It's the image I can't shake: her standing there, surrounded by music and strangers, unaware of how close the line really was. How close I let it get.
I tighten my fingers around hers, just enough to feel her answer the pressure immediately.
--Flashback--
We caught him before the glass ever reached the floor.
Not on the dance floor. Not under lights.
In the service corridor behind the bar, where the bass dulled into a distant thrum and the air smelled of cleaner and spilled citrus.
His fingers hovered over the rim of the glass.
Too steady.
Too intentional.
Marcus stepped in first, cutting off the exit without touching him.
"Don't move," Marcus said quietly.
The man froze. His eyes darted once—calculating—then landed on me.
I took the glass from his hand and tilted it slightly. The residue clung faintly to the inner rim, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
He shook his head too fast.
"I don't know," he said. "I swear. He wore a mask. Didn't give a name."
Marcus shifted closer.
"You're lying to someone," Marcus said evenly. "Decide who."
The man's shoulders slumped. Fear hollowed his voice.
"He met me outside. Paid cash. Said I just had to make sure the glass got to the table. That's all."
I watched his hands. They were trembling now.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Gone," the man said quickly. "He left before I even came back in."
I studied him for a beat, then held the glass out again.
"You're still going to serve it," I said.
His head snapped up. "What?"
"You walk back out," I continued calmly, "you put the glass down exactly where you were told, and you act like nothing happened."
"And after?" His voice cracked.
Marcus leaned in just enough.
"You don't run," Marcus said. "Because if you do, you won't make it past the doors."
Silence stretched.
Then the man nodded—small, defeated.
I adjusted my cuff and tapped the bar frame twice.
Marcus moved instantly, repositioning, eyes already tracking exits and sightlines.
The man took the glass back with shaking fingers and disappeared into the noise.
I didn't follow him.
I turned the other way.
Because my part was next.
I went toward the floor, toward the lights—toward Cynthia—already counting the seconds until the glass reached the table.
--Present--
Cynthia leans closer now, pressing her forehead to my chest like she needs to feel proof that I'm still here.
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, grounding.
"Raymond," she murmurs, "you could've died."
"I did it for you," I say. My voice comes out hoarse but steady. Controlled. "That part was easy."
She lifts her head, and her eyes flare—fear first, then anger, then something warmer and far more dangerous. Awe, maybe. Or understanding.
She presses her hand against my cheek, the touch soft but purposeful. "You're ridiculous."
I huff a weak breath that almost passes for a grin. "Probably."
The space between us tightens. The almost-kiss hangs there, charged, unfinished—a magnetic pull neither of us breaks. I lift my hand slowly, careful of the IV, and cup her jaw.
My thumb brushes her cheek, memorizing the warmth, the texture, the way she leans into it without thinking.
"Stay with me," I whisper.
Her lips twitch, frustration and fondness colliding. "You're insane."
"And yet," I murmur, holding her gaze, holding her close, "irresistible."
She presses herself closer, heartbeat against mine.
I feel everything in that contact—her vulnerability, her strength, the quiet way she's chosen not to walk away. I tighten my fingers over hers, feeling the warmth, the life, the laughter she hides behind trembling hands.
"Raymond," she whispers again, thumb tracing my knuckles, slower now. "Why?"
"Because it was the only way to keep you safe," I admit. "And yes—I'd do it again. Without hesitation."
She lets out a soft laugh, barely louder than a breath. It shatters the tension, makes the world shrink down to this bed, this moment, this shared pulse.
I brush her hair back gently, fingers grazing her cheek. The intensity between us is almost unbearable—a cocktail of fear, relief, and something dangerously tender. I can feel her smile even before I see it. Her exasperation.
The teasing press of her lips near mine. The almost-kiss hovering on the edge of inevitability.
Outside, the world keeps moving—engines fading, city lights pulsing, vendors closing up for the night—but here, it's just us. Alive. Unguarded.
I draw her hand to my chest again, anchoring it there. "Do you understand?" I ask softly.
"I do," she whispers. "And you're impossible."
"And yet," I say, low, "entirely unforgettable."
Footsteps approach—light, careful, professional.
The doctor appears with a clipboard tucked under her arm, expression calm but focused. "Raymond, we need to check your vitals again.
Cynthia—just a moment."
I glance at Cynthia, torn between protest and the instinct to steal one more second. She exhales, steps back, but keeps hold of my hand a beat longer before letting go.
The doctor moves efficiently—adjusting the IV, checking the monitor, pressing lightly against my shoulder and chest. "Everything's stable for now," she says. "But we'll need to keep monitoring you closely. No heroics."
I nod. "Understood."
She gives me a look that says she doubts that entirely, then steps out.
The room settles again. The machines resume their quiet authority. Cynthia stands near the foot of the bed now, arms folded loosely, watching me like she's memorizing my outline.
I breathe in, catching the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to the air.
Outside the room, the city goes on, oblivious. Inside, tension coils tighter. Danger isn't over.
Someone is still out there, still calculating. I lean back against the pillows, tracing the faint outline of the hand that held mine, the warmth that tethered me to reality. And I realize—surviving tonight wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.