The Butler

Chapter 7

I was still in shock, not just from the near-miss, but from the realization that it was Richard who had pushed me to safety. Even as everyone fussed over him, brushing dust and dirt from his suit, his eyes never left me.

"Why didn't you run?" he snapped, his voice sharp and accusatory.

I opened my mouth to respond, but he had already turned to the site manager, who was apologizing profusely. "I want everyone responsible for this  ruckus fired," Richard barked, his tone icy, before storming off. "Carl, let's go."

I muttered a quick apology to the others before hurrying after him. His long strides forced me to jog slightly just to keep up.

"Where are we going?" I asked, breathless from trying to match his pace.

He didn't stop walking. "Have you seen our clothes? We're done for the day."

Only then did I glance down and notice the state of us. Our once-pristine outfits were smeared with grime, and the back of Richard's jacket had a tear. Embarrassed, I kept my head low and followed him to the car.

He didn't say another word until we were both seated, the car's engine humming softly. "Are you alright?" he finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

"Yes. And you?"

"Fine," he replied curtly. Then, softer, "Glad to see you're not hurt."

I shot him a quick glance, caught off guard by the sentiment. I hadn't expected that response, but for a fleeting moment, it made my heart leap with happiness. Even after all these years, he still cared.

When we arrived at the manor, I waited for Richard to get out first. He sighed audibly, his stress evident in every step he took. But as he walked, something about his movements caught my eye. He was limping, just slightly. He tried his best to hide it but I still see it.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I asked, checking up on him.

"Of course," he replied dismissively, but his uneven gait betrayed him.

I bit my lip, guilt gnawing at me. If he was injured, it was likely because of me. But knowing him, he wouldn't admit it—his pride wouldn't allow it. However, my suspicions were confirmed when he removed his jacket, revealing a bloodstain on the back of his white shirt.

"Richard," I gasped, rushing toward him. He flinched as I touched his arm.

"You're hurt," I said firmly. "Let me take you to the hospital."

"What?" He tried to deny it, but I pointed to the crimson stain spreading across his shirt.

"It's just a scratch," he insisted, brushing me off. "Nothing serious."

"At least let me look at it," I insisted.

He sighed in defeat and led me to his room. Grabbing a first aid kit from the storeroom, I followed him inside.

"Take off your shirt," I instructed, setting the kit down on the dresser.

He hesitated, giving me a look of mild annoyance, but eventually began unbuttoning his shirt. As the fabric slid off his shoulders, I couldn't help but gape, my eyes drawn to the lean, sculpted muscles that stretched across his back. This was not the skinny kid afraid of storms I once remembered.

"So?" he asked, twisting slightly as if to see his own back. "How bad is it?"

I moved closer and inspected his wound. I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus. "You're right, it's just a scratch. But still, it would be better if we went to the hospital for a thorough examination."  

"It must've been the scaffolding," he muttered. "I felt it graze me when I pushed you."

II dampened a cloth and gently wiped the wound. He flinched at the first touch.

"Relax," I murmured. "It's just water—it won't sting." I assured him. "Did you know using alcohol can actually harm tissue and delay healing?" I added, recalling a lesson from Health class, hoping to distract him from the discomfort of cleaning his wound.

"That's why you're the best." he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Are you really going to fire someone over this?" I asked, trying to keep the mood light while preparing the bandages.

"I have to do what is necessary." he replied coldly.

"Can't you give them another chance? It was an accident."

He turned to face me, his expression dark. "You could've been seriously hurt, and you're asking me to let them keep their jobs?"

"Like I said, it was an accident. They didn't mean for it to happen."

He hesitated, clearly torn.

"They didn't mean for it to happen, Richard." I repeated. "And thanks to you, I'm perfectly fine. Please. I'll feel guilty if people lose their jobs because of me."

His jaw tightened as he stared at me, clearly weighing his options.

"Please," I said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm asking you as a favor."

After a moment, he sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll call the site manager."

"Thank you," I said with a relieved smile. "And that's why you're the best." I added, returning his earlier compliment.

The room fell quiet as I finished dressing his wound, the silence broken only by the sound of our synchronized breathing. It was oddly intimate, and the realization made my pulse quicken.

Desperate to break the tension, I decided to mention the rain last night. 

"It was a hell of a storm last night." 

"Yeah? What about it?" His tone was uninterested.

"Remember when you were a kid—"

Before I could finish, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist.

"Don't," he said, his voice low but firm, almost like a threat. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't."

I stared at him, confused by the sudden shift in his demeanor.

"I'm not a kid anymore," he growled. "Stop treating me like one." 

His words left me speechless. I pulled my hand free and continued working in silence, sticking the adhesive bandage on his back with mechanical precision.

"Sorry, sir," I said stiffly. "It won't happen again."

His head snapped around, irritation flashing in his eyes. "I told you to stop calling me 'sir.'"

It slipped out before I could stop myself, but instead of apologizing, I chose to respond defensively. "It's a habit. And if you want to be treated like an adult, calling you by your name feels... odd. It feels like I'm talking to your younger self."

"That's not what I meant," he muttered, his gaze distant.

"Then explain it to me," I challenged, crossing my arms.

Instead of answering, Richard stood and walked to the other side of the room, his bare chest on full display. It felt deliberate, like he was trying to prove something.

"I think I need to rest," he said finally, a weak excuse to end the conversation.

"Certainly, sir," I replied pointedly, unable to resist the jab.

He shot me a look, but I simply picked up the first aid kit and nodded as a gesture of dismissal. His gaze lingered, scrutinizing me until I closed the door and his prying eyes dissolved into view.