Cynthia
Morning light filtered softly through the thin curtains, brushing across my shoulders where Raymond's loose shirt had fallen the night before. The room smelled faintly of linen and lingering warmth, a calm that seemed impossible considering the turmoil my heart carried. Raymond sat by the window, elbows resting on his knees, gazing out at the city that was just waking. Cars honked in the distance, vendors' calls floated faintly from the street, and somewhere a motorist's engine growled as he rushed past. I watched him, this man who had survived so much, and still somehow seemed untouchable, even in repose.
His head turned, and our eyes met. That half-smile appeared — slow, intimate, heart-stirring. My chest tightened at the sight of it.
"Morning," he said quietly, voice calm, steady.
"Morning," I murmured, brushing the fabric of his shirt against my skin, feeling its familiar weight.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Better," he replied, voice low, almost a murmur. "Now that you're here."
I laughed softly, a flutter of nerves escaping in the sound. "Trying to flatter me before breakfast?"
His fingers lifted a stray lock of my hair, brushing it behind my ear, delicate and careful. "It's working," he murmured.
Then he handed me a small, worn dog tag. The metal felt rough against my palm, yet carried warmth, weight, and meaning.
"Keep it," he said softly. "Reminds me to fight my way home."
I froze, curling my fingers around it, feeling the pulse of his intention, his promise. "Raymond…"
"You'll be fine," he said. "And I'll be back."
My mind jumped to the medicine pack I had been responsible for. "Raymond… the last dose. It's not here. I think I left it with your mother."
He tilted his head slightly, teasing beneath concern. "Or is this just your way of running away from me?"
I laughed, lightly hitting his arm, though my fingers lingered. He caught my wrist, eyes locking on mine, a heartbeat of tension, of electric silence.
"We still haven't finished what the doctor interrupted," he whispered, leaning closer without crossing any line, careful but intimate.
"Finished what?" I teased, heart pounding.
"Don't play innocent," he murmured, smirking. My resolve melted for a moment, but I pulled back, reminding myself of my mission. "Let me just get the medicine. When I come back… we'll finish it. I promise."
His gaze lingered, longing mixed with something deeper, as I stepped toward the door. The promise hung in the air, fragile but binding.
The Vapour SUV waited outside, engine humming softly. The city blurred past as SUV, the engine humming steadily as the driver guided us through the morning traffic. Bodyguards flanked me, silent and alert, their presence grounding me as the city blurred past—vendors packing up, motorists weaving through the streets.
By the time we arrived at Mrs. Jude's house, the sunlight had brightened, spilling across the garden and the polished wooden porch. The faint scent of jasmine drifted on the air.
"Cynthia! Good morning," Mrs. Jude greeted warmly, her smile measured but maternal, a woman in her mid-fifties, composed and calm.
"Morning, ma'am," I said, stepping carefully into the familiar warmth. "I… I think I left the last dosage of Raymond's medicine in your bag."
Her eyes softened. "Ah, you came for that? Don't worry, dear. I'll get it for you."
We moved toward the corridor together, but I lingered near the staircase, tidying a small vase of flowers, when I heard the sharp, bitter voice slicing through the calm.
"Why does he get everything?" Desmond's voice, heavy with jealousy and rage, floated from upstairs. "Respect, love, attention… and me? Nothing!"
Mrs. Jude responded firmly, a steel underlying her calm: "Desmond, jealousy is a choice. You know why he earns what he does."
"Choice?" he spat, anger breaking through. "He's treated like a king, and you all worship him! You have no idea what he's capable of!"
My heart lurched. I pressed myself behind the staircase pillar, silent, unnoticed, absorbing every syllable, every shift in tone.
"Watch your tongue!" Mrs. Jude's voice rose now, firm, maternal, but dangerous. "Raymond earned every scar on his body, every step he's taken. Do not compare yourself to him. Ever."
The silence afterward was thick, heavy. I felt it pressing, a storm gathering in Desmond's words unspoken.
Mrs. Jude returned, holding a small bag with the medicine. She handed it to me gently, a gesture that carried reassurance and warmth. "Here you go, Cynthia. Take care of him."
I thanked her softly, heart still racing from the tension, and turned toward the door. As the SUV carried me home, the driver's hands steady on the wheel, my thoughts churned with Desmond's bitterness and the shadow of danger he might bring. The dog tag pressed into my palm, a small comfort amid the growing tension, while bodyguards maintained a quiet vigil around me.
But my mind was elsewhere. Desmond's words echoed in my thoughts, bitter, dangerous, full of threat. I pictured his face, the smirk of someone who believed he could bend the world to his jealousy. His intentions were dark, deliberate.
I held the dog tag in one hand, the medicine in the other. The warmth from Raymond's promise pressed against me, but fear threaded through my veins, a chill that refused to dissipate.
I remembered every detail of the exchange — the edge in Desmond's tone, the sharpness in his accusations, the anger barely contained behind Mrs. Jude's stern corrections. I could see the storm building, feel the tension tightening around those words.
My thoughts drifted to the fragile balance of safety and danger, to the idea that calm was fleeting. The dog tag reminded me of his promise, of the bond that anchored me, but it also reminded me that threats lurked, unseen, calculating.
I realized the weight of responsibility I carried — not just for Raymond, but for the world he returned to, and the darkness that followed, waiting to strike.
I closed my eyes briefly, taking a breath, letting the rhythm of the car and the distant sounds soothe me just enough to think clearly. Desmond was more than bitter — he appeared to have been planning, scheming, waiting for a moment of vulnerability.
The morning light shifted through the windshield, catching on the dog tag, glinting like a small beacon. My fingers tightened around it. Every heartbeat was a reminder of him, of the stakes, of the fragile line between safety and danger.
I thought of Mrs. Jude's words, her steady presence, the weight of history and experience behind her calm. She had stood for Raymond, for what was right, even when Desmond's anger threatened to spill over.
But I knew one thing clearly — Desmond's storm was coming, and I was in the eye of it.
I gripped the medicine tightly, thinking of Raymond's last dose, the tangible reminder that life depended on care, attention, and foresight. I understood now that the smallest detail mattered, that a single misstep could change everything.
The SUV hummed past the rising city, and I glanced at the dog tag again, feeling the metallic warmth through my palm. I wondered how long calm could last, and whether I was prepared for the storm headed our way.